


The Bad Moon Rising

by orphan_account



Series: For Cosmic Intent [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Badass Dipper Pines, Badass Mabel Pines, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Demon Deals, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Bill Cipher, Family Secrets, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magic, Manipulation, Murder, Mystery, Older Dipper Pines, Older Mabel Pines, PXSB QEB QBBQE!, Permanent Injury, Protective Dipper Pines, Protective Grunkle Stan, Protective Mabel Pines, Protective Siblings, Slow Build, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4062091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We're in for nasty weather.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Five years after that fateful summer at Gravity Falls, the Pines twins are rocked by the sudden death of their mother. But that's just the beginning. It's time for Dipper Pines to pay for a deal he struck a long time ago; one way, or another.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Hope you are quite prepared to die.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. VKH LV QRW ZKDW VKH VHHPV

**Author's Note:**

> (Major trigger warnings for the first part of this chapter for graphic suicide and later throughout this chapter and the fic mentions of suicide.)
> 
> Please read the prologue first - it's short and sweet and to the point, but you technically don't have to. You just might want to!

Her name is Marcella Pines. She has two children, and they’re the sweetest kids she’s ever met in her entire life. She has a husband, Mark, who leaves the house every Sunday night to geek out over football.

It’s a simple, cold November, and there’s rain quietly pouring down  - _simple_. It’s all very normal, very sweet, down to the red blanket and the book in her hand.

She wants to claw her eyes out. She wants to bleed for years and then some, wants to bleed and crawl and fall and die. Marcella - Marcy, they call her - has no idea why. She’s never had depression before, she’s never had any sort of mental illness, and it’s completely, totally out of the blue.

Except it’s not. Because the walls are white, and that’s not right, they should be red. Everything in her life should be brighter than she is, she should be swallowed up in extravagant riches; she deserves that.

Right? Right. It’s not like she’s always lived simply. It’s not like there’s a picture of her, right there on the mantle, of her milking a cow on her grandfather’s farm. But there is.

She wants more.

 

She’ll never get more.

That’s not fair, because she deserves more than this. Doesn’t she? Does she?

Does she even want more? She was always fine with what she had before.

She doesn’t know what she’s thinking, so she just stops thinking. So much easier. She’s relenting to something far more powerful and ancient than she is; it feels like falling backwards into a bottomless pit, like grace and beauty and the end all at once.

She stumbles into the bathroom down the hallway, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. It feels like something foreign and alien has crashed into her head, her delicate, precious mind. It’s hard to think around its heavy, bold presence. So, she doesn’t. She gives in, not entirely sure who she’s giving in to; herself, or the dark thing with the strange eyes that has taken up residence where her logic should be.

She doesn’t make it to the toilet before she throws up. The viscous, red liquid hits the basin with a splat - blood. There’s an aggressive bite in the back of her throat, unnatural. It tastes like metal, but that might be the blood.

She coughs again, tentatively. Metal smacks into her teeth, rattling her skull and slicing her tongue, before slipping past her bloody lips.

Razors. Fucking _razors_ , from her mouth - what the _fucking fuck._

That’s impossible. It’s impossible, improbable, it just doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen. Not in this world, not in the carefully crafted suburban haven so very far away from everything else she knows.

As far away as she can get from the woman with the strange eyes, but not far enough, never far enough. She can never get away - she should’ve known. She should’ve known the second she started thinking thoughts that weren’t hers -

but they _were_. _Weren’t_ they? They _had_ to be. Preposterous. Everything that went on in her head was product of her own mind and no one else’s.

That’s why her fingers were fumbling with the razors. The lethal, impossibly sharp edges sliced the hardened skin of her calloused fingers. Blood, thin and fast, sprung from the wounds, rolling over the knobs and knuckles of her hands.

All her. She could prove it, too. This life was enough for her, just enough; but a drop more, and she’d spill over, blood sliding over the rim.

She looks at the razors - one in her left hand, the other in her right. They weigh the same. They’re both deadly, dangerous. Beautiful, under the blood, simple, gleaming metal. _Simple._ Too simple, like everything around her seems destined to be.

Marcella is filled with a sudden and vicious anger. It leaves her blind, open to attack; her arms are moving before she can register that she’s not the one who told them to.

-

It’s a somber, cold day.

Then again, it’s California. It’s not very cold, and there’s few people who are very somber; they’re still bustling, busy with their lives and jobs. Dipper wonders if that’s supposed to be something fulfilling, like a life goal, an aspiration; it just sounds boring and dreary. Then again, lots of things sound boring and dreary on the way to a funeral.

Dipper self-consciously pulls at his collar. The suit he's wearing - black jacket, black undershirt, and black pants - is tailored and expensive, courtesy of his aunt Marissa. She was a reasonably wealthy fashion designer, and also the reason Mabel started making her own clothes.

His bow tie - which Marissa had insisted upon - was pure white. It's supposedly symbolic, but Dipper had tuned that part of the fashion speech out.

If he was being quite honest, he didn’t really care. There was only one type of symbolism he cared about anyway.

Mabel’s in the seat next to him, clad in a slim black dress with a thin layer of lace over it. There’s a white ribbon tied carefully into her dark, curled hair. It's a jarring sight. Mabel's hair is usually in a wild disarray.

She looks uncomfortable, all in all. Like a toy with its string wound tight.

 

Dipper winces at the thought.

His scattered train of thought disperses completely. He settles for staring aimlessly out of the window while the car - black, like his mood - shuttles down the road.

He’s been doing that, lately, losing track of his own head. Ever since he walked into his mother’s bathroom and slipped on her blood. Quite literally, too; he'd fallen face-first into his mother's corpse.

Sometimes he hated being six-foot-three. He forgot to look down, forgot to see the dead body and the blood under his feet before walking forward like a total dumbass.

He sighs. He’s sure Mabel hears him, but neither of them really have the energy to respond to much.

Senior year is hard enough, he thinks. We don’t need this.

But they’ve got it, it’s the only hand they've got. They’ve got to deal. Adapt. It’s what people do, dodge the circumstances and evolve. So Dipper sucks in a breath as his dad pulls the car to a stop, and lets it out, somehow feeling more prepared now that he’s made an attempt at something other than being mopey.

The shift in the atmosphere is immediate; suddenly, Mabel seems a lot closer than she had been, a lot more comforting.

Okay. Just keep doing that trying thing. Really, it can’t be too hard; plenty of people do it.

Dipper hadn’t accounted for actually getting out of the car, which sapped his second wind like a vaguely depressing leach.

Dipper sighs, again. Like he always does. What’s with that, anyway? Why do human beings show exasperation with an exhale of breath? Shouldn’t they store that oxygen for more important things?

“Alright,” his dad said. “We’re here.”

Dipper nods, and feels a sudden burst of pity when he looks at his father’s face. Over the last week, his father had somehow thinned, looking less like a broad-shouldered Pines and more like a willow tree, or something. A sapling, maybe.

Case in point, his father had deep, sunken eyes hounded by dark under-eye bags that bespoke of hell in a very raw, tender form. He knew the last thing his dad wanted was pity, being the testosterone junkie he usually was, but Dipper couldn’t help it.

Mabel didn’t look much better, but at least she was in his line of sight. The shadows cast by his father’s unruly hair made the hollows look deep and threatening. Mabel was closer to the light, almost phototrophic, with a wide, owlish face highlighted by red, teary eyes. She looked less like a ghost than their father did.

“Right,” Dipper croaked. “Totally.”

The silence was fucking deafening. He was used to Mabel’s chittering and chirping about happy things and beautiful things, he was used to his dad’s imperceptible quietness - sometimes, they even got a nod, which was incredible - and his mother’s soft, but loud murmurs of agreement that sounded like honey would. He was used to shoving his nose in a book and ignoring it, taking it for granted.

Dipper’s since come to the conclusion that he is truly a magnificent asshole, but on some level, that’s always been true.

“Okay,” Mabel murmurs. Dipper’s heart breaks. She sounds like a mouse, not at all like the lion he knows she is.

His aunt looks at the three of them with unveiled pity. “Come along,” she says, sharply, designer heels hitting the gravel with awkward, uneven claps. Her halting, slow gait would be giggle-worthy if he was in a giggling kind of mood.

They follow without so much as a single word.

The walk isn’t far. Dipper pointedly doesn’t look at the individual graves as they walk. Mabel does the exact opposite, slowing down before each one and reading them, giving her respects. Dipper’s humbled by it; that his sister was at her mother’s funeral and was still trying to give to people she couldn’t give to. His breath hitches.

He bows his head, and slows down so he doesn’t tread on Mabel’s flats while she walks.

The funeral party congregates around the area where they’ll lower his mother’s casket into the ground, all hushed tones and very, very quiet tears. Dipper’s tempted to cry, but dismisses the thought. He’s gotta keep up his douchebag shtick. If he gets all weepy at a funeral, he, like, loses his professional dickwad license. Can’t go doing that.

He’s already crying, of course, but if he keeps quiet and keeps his head low, hopefully no one will notice.

And then there’s Mabel, sweeping up by his side, pressing her shoulder against his the way animals do when they want each other to know they’re not alone. She still smells like their aunt’s perfume; Dipper finds himself sorely missing the sickly sweet candy scent that usually follows her around.

Unconsciously, Dipper leans closer to her, draws emotional strength from her never-ending pool of power. He’s not afraid to admit that his sister is a lot stronger than he is in a lot of ways.

Their dad is farther away, to Mabel’s right, and Dipper can just barely see the man’s head bob down as he wipes tears away. Dipper winces. He’s never seen his dad cry, or show emotions other than anger and stern fatherly acceptance.

It’s like getting doused with ice water. Dipper’s suddenly hyper-aware of everyone else behind him, all of them glaring at the white casket.

He doesn’t want anyone here - not his aunt, who’s three feet to his left but still too close, not his dad, who’s always too close, not cousin Jerry or uncle Bruce or all of these people he doesn’t actually know - just Mabel. Just him and Mabel, beside each other, making it work, making it hurt less.

“ _Shit,_ asshole,” someone mutters behind him. “That was my foot - out of my way, out of my way - coming through - _hey!_ I’ve got important business that’s also none of your business, get out -”

Dipper’s mouth falls open.

Something in his heart soars, and for a few seconds, he can hardly believe his senses. It can’t be. He knows that voice, remembers and reveres it, but he hasn’t heard it since that last summer when he was twelve -

Mabel had turned to him, eyes shocked and wide, mouth open; it’s like looking into a mirror. They turn around together.

He looks almost exactly the same.

Grunkle Stan had swapped the green suit for a cheap black one, with a simple white dress shirt and the Mr. Krabs tie Mabel had sent him two Christmases ago. It’s a funeral, and the tie is probably seen as an insult, but neither of them care - it’s special to them. It’s for them.

They haven’t seen him since they were twelve, and then he shows up at a funeral with a Mr. Krabs tie - it’s so, incredibly Stan that Dipper can scarcely believe it.

He’s here for them, not because anyone else had asked him to be. Dipper’s heart - achy with the strain of so many damn feelings - swells.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shrieks, and crashes into Stan with all of the force of hurricane. Mabel, being almost as tall as he is - which is intimidating to literally everyone they meet, because, holy shit, _girls got that tall_ \- wasn’t a joke. Her tackle hugs could take someone out. Dipper would know.

“Oh my God,” Stan wheezed. Dipper could just make out his face around Mabel’s hair. “You’re supposed to be tiny little _butterfly_ kids, what the _hell_ happened here.”

Dipper laughs - a real, honest one - and things don’t seem so dreary and dull like they had in the car. (After all, Stan had literally just called him a butterfly child. Things didn’t get more colorful than that.)

“Mabel!” their aunt snapped. “You’ll ruin your dress!”

“We haven’t seen him in five years,” Dipper said, leaning towards her. “Cut us some slack.”

“You’re at least acting with a little class, you know,” she said, miffed. “You’re still upright.”

_Oh, no._ Not the Mabel-is-crazy-and-Dipper-isn’t dichotomy again. “I’m just waiting my turn,” he replied, with a lopsided, odd grin.

Sure enough, after a flabbergasted Stan is once again upright, Dipper tackles him in a hug. Instead of breaking the old man’s back, which, honestly, he probably could have done in his excitement, he settles for a powerful hug. Out of spite, and with a glare at aunt Marissa, he lifts Stan off the ground a couple of inches.

_“Kid!”_ Stan shrieks - holy shit, he’d outright _shrieked_. He might have broken something important, like a pelvis or his great uncle’s pride.

Dipper puts him down and straightens his jacket. “Couldn’t let Mabel outdo me.”

“Pffft,” Mabel said. “I outdo you in _everything.”_

Dipper nodded to her, a strange, sideways tick of the head he’d learned a long time ago when Mabel had made her official claim to the spot directly to his right. “This is true.”

Grunkle Stan popped his back with his hands, with a muttered _‘oh, everything hurts.’_ Then, he said, “I always knew you were a wimpass, Dipper.”

Dipper sighs, resolute. “Thank you, thank you. One day I’m going to wrestle a crocodile and prove you wrong.”

Mabel giggles. It sounds like the bells of heaven. She slings an arm around him. “Love ya, broseph, but you’re never gonna wrestle a crocodile.”

Dipper huffs. “I totally could. I mean, I’d die, but I could do it.”

“You can wrestle the damn dinosaurs,” Grunkle Stan cursed. “They come out every summer. How am I supposed to explain the skyscraper sized brachiosaurus in my backyard?”

Dipper’s heart stops beating for a minute. Gravity Falls. The not-so-sleepy town smack-dab in Bumfuck, Nowhere, Oregon. Filled to the brim with mysteries and oddities and the wildest things imaginable, and some things that weren’t, a new supernatural curiosity hanging around every corner.

Dipper takes a breath, steels himself. Tucks his longing and childlike wonder away into a deep fold of his mind. He’s never going back. He _can’t._

He coughs, interrupting the silence that had fallen over them.

“What brings you down here?” Dipper asked.

Grunkle Stan glared at him above his glasses. “The _weather._ It’s great! No snow!”

The first part was definitely sarcastic, but he couldn’t quite tell about the second part. Didn’t Oregon get quite a bit of snow this year? “Uh - was that sarcastic or…?”

Mabel giggled, again. “Dipshit,” she coughed.

“Is it beat-Dipper-with-a-metaphorical-stick day?” Dipper mutters.

“That’s on Wednesdays,” Stan said. “Today’s... _probably_ Monday.”

“Grunkle Stan,” Mabel said. “It _is_ Wednesday.”

Stan’s eyes widen comically. “Great Barrier Reef, time flies fast when you’re old.”

Dipper grins. He'd missed this banter, the stuff they easily fall into even though they’ve spent five years apart; it makes him wish they’d kept going back, that he’d spat in the face of danger and death and danced on a high wire.

Instead, they’d gone to stay on their maternal grandfather’s farm, a quaint place with lots of cows and ancient values. The only thing interesting about that place was the pegasus herd in one of the fields his grandfather had been hoping to adapt into pasture.

“I’m only in town for a week,” Stan said. “Make your sappy confessions of how I’m the greatest Grunkle ever short and sweet.”

“Eh,” Dipper said. “Too much effort.” He was rewarded with a slap to the back of his head from Stan, who grumbled under his breath. But his smile was fond.

Mabel slaps his arm playfully. “Mr. Pines,” she said, mocking their English teacher’s voice - deep and ridiculously gritty.

“But Mr. Beaton,” Dipper responded, speaking through his nose - stupidly high and nasally. The typical teenager voice.

“You sound like you’re twelve when you do that,” Mabel said.

Dipper curls his lip and sticks his tongue out at her. _Suck it, my voices are great._

Mabel spreads her hands and plants them atop her head like moose antlers. _You look like a lumberjack._

Dipper huffed. The awkward lumberjack look was totally in.

Grunkle Stan slapped them both on the back of the head. _Jeeze, what is with that gesture?_ "Knock it off, or you're both my personal servants while I’m down here."

“Technically, that’s child labor,” Dipper said.

“It’s only labor for you, noodles,” Mabel said, poking his arm.

Dipper’s eyes widened. _Holy shit._ A blush crept up his cheeks. “Mabel -”

Grunkle Stan busted out into wheezing, old-guy laughter. “Noodles! Ha! Pool floats are hilarious.”

“Hilariously _dumb,_ ” Mabel said, with a broad grin.

_Totally not what I was thinking,_ Dipper thought. But he laughed anyway.

After their laughter had subsided, the cold, grim feeling seeped into his bones. The unfamiliar faces in unforgiving suits set him on edge; he felt like a cornered animal.

The priest was ready to speak.

In the back of his mind, Dipper wondered what had taken him so long.

Dipper’s mood, bolstered by his family, dwindled.

It was a curse. The more people talked in monotones, the more his mind wandered. Wandering heads wasn't a good thing; they tended to get lost. In the decapitated sense.

He kept his eyes brazenly on the casket. It was a small act of bravery. He was going to do it, he swore, he was going to come to terms with his mother’s death - and he was going to be damn _okay_ with it. He had a sister and he had the man behind him and all those people way back in Gravity Falls. He could take those memories and _thrive._ He _could._ He just had to try.

And then they started to lower the casket. His mental pep-talk flew out the window. It was just an effort of crying silently, which, to his pride’s great pleasure, was a success.

Somewhere between one word and the next, Grunkle Stan’s hand had landed between his shoulder blades. It didn’t move - it was there, like sun-warmed stone. It was the only thing holding him up and keeping him together in front of the congregation.

Dipper closed his eyes, awarded himself a moment to be thankful, to be glad. It was strange what the presence of the right person - or people - could do.

Dipper fumbled for Mabel's hand awkwardly - it was shaking violently against her thigh - and slipped his fingers through hers. Mabel’s hands were clammy and he hoped he was doing this comforting shit right.

He sucked at that. All he knew was hugging and listening and the occasional shoulder-pat.

Mabel squeezed his hand tight. Dipper cussed under his breath - her grip was like iron, _jeeze._ She chuckled beside him.

“Whaddya say we go for something to eat,” Stan said, voice light. “I saw a pillage-able shack on the way up.”

_Pillage-able._ Dipper snorted.

“Grunkle Stan, you would be proud,” Mabel said. “Dipper and I haven’t paid to go out to eat ever.”

Dipper shrugged. “It’s true.”

Grunkle Stan gawked, and then slapped them both on the back, hard enough to make them stumble. “Bathroom-and-run trick?”

“Yep!” Mabel said, popping the last letter with her tongue.

“Hah!” Grunkle Stan cackled. “I’ve got a new one. Daisy 8’s?”

“They’re good,” Dipper said. “I’m down.”

 

They started off, back down the hill. Dipper stayed behind - just a moment.

He looked at the scene around him, the graves, the flowers surrounding his mother’s picture. He felt cold in his flesh, like he’d just swallowed ice and it had gone through his bloodstream. Like he’d been injected with antifreeze.

The night his mom had died - when he’d gone upstairs to ask her what was for dinner - he’d felt like it was going to happen. He knew something was up, could feel it, deep in marrow; the atmosphere had _changed._ It had felt like stepping into the Mystery Shack for the first time, all those years ago. That sick feeling of knowing he wasn't the only one in the room no matter which room he was in.

 

And she’d carved triangles on her arms, up and down, in neat, tiny rows. Even the ones drawn with her non-dominant hand had been perfect, hateful things. But Dipper knew that, given the terms of a deal he’d made a very long time ago, that it couldn't have been Bill. Demon deals were too binding for that.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was _murder,_ not a suicide.

“Dipper!” Mabel called. “Are you coming?”

Dipper turned to yell back, “Yeah!”

 

 __  
He could think about it later. For now, he was starving.


	2. VLR ZXK'Q LRQORK ERKDBO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thanks to my beta, notadashi. Seriously. She's just pulled my ass out of the deep fryer. All of this is only here because she made it happen, so send love her way! 
> 
> Trigger warnings for bullying and mentions of suicide. Please heed all warnings!

The school looks like a prison; gray and low to the ground.

**  
  
**

Mabel dismisses it. School’s always been at least a little fun, even on her worst days.

**  
  
**

Today, of course, counts as one of her worst days. Her mother is dead, six feet under, kicked the bucket, all of those other little phrases that she can’t stand anymore. She’ll never see her again. Mabel almost crumbles on the spot.

**  
  
**

But then Dipper’s arm is sweeping under her own, wrapping her in for a hug before she can lose her resolve completely.

**  
  
**

He’s a lot better at comforting people than he gives himself credit for. He’s also a lot stronger than she gives him credit for - a lot stronger than her, in a lot of different ways.

**  
  
**

She’s not afraid to admit that she buries her face into his shoulder. She needs a hug right about now.

**  
  
**

“Text me,” he says, breath rustling her hair. “If you - uh - need something.”

**  
  
**

Mabel chuckles. To people who don’t know Dipper, it would have seemed like the endearingly sweet overprotective brother thing again. There’s more to it than that though - he’s got a heart, too, under his pride. It’s as much of a lifeline for him as it is for her.

**  
  
**

“No problemo, bro-bro,” she says, releasing him. Dipper nods, gazing at her with watery eyes.

**  
  
**

_Oh, no_ , Mabel thinks. _Don’t go lost moose puppy on me. Please no. If you cry I cry. Come on Dippy Daisies._

**  
  
**

She pulls off his hat - the same, sun-faded blue one he’d gotten from the Mystery Shack. “You can’t wear this in school, you big dummy.”

**  
  
**

She punches his shoulder. She lets it hit his shoulder full-force. To his credit, Dipper doesn’t wince - but he does stumble a bit, making Mabel grin.

**  
  
**

Dipper grumbles. “What even is the point of that rule? If I want a hat, I should totally get a hat. It’s my hat. It’s my head.”

**  
  
**

“It’s their school,” Mabel says. She takes the lead and starts walking towards the building. If they stay out here much longer, they’ll freeze their tooshes off, and Mabel likes her toosh, thank you very much.

**  
  
**

“I do what I want,” Dipper says.

**  
  
**

Mabel giggles. “Oh, really now?”

**  
  
**

“Absolutely,” Dipper replies. “I, like, rule the world.”

**  
  
**

“I call executive of -”

**  
  
**

“Glitter and small animals, I’ve got you covered,” Dipper says. They’re at the door now, and Mabel feels lurid fear crawl up her spine.

**  
  
**

They’d decided to come in a nine o’clock instead of eight twenty-five, so they could see Grunkle Stan off. That, and neither of them were really looking forward to returning to school. They’d never had the best reputation among their peers; Dipper was too quiet and geeky, Mabel was too loud and too flamboyant. Too much here, not enough there.

**  
  
**

Mabel had long since learned to live with it - after all, she was different, she was loud, she was weird; but these things didn’t bother her. However, she’d never quite stopped leaping to Dipper’s side. He never did anything. He was quiet, kept to himself, and only stood up when she was the one in question; he didn’t deserve it.

**  
  
**

Mabel sticks her tongue out at him. “I knew you had my back.”

**  
  
**

Dipper rubs the back of his neck. “About the -”

**  
  
**

“ - texting thing,” Mabel says. “Got it. Don’t worry about me, brozo. I got this.” Mabel pulls a Rosie the Riveter pose. “I mean, look at these guns!”

**  
  
**

Dipper laughs. “Alright, Wonder Woman.”

**  
  
**

Mabel’s eyes widen and she gasps. “Yes! My true calling! I know what I’m going to college for, Dippy!”

**  
  
**

“Oh, really? I can’t go to college to be a Ghostbuster but you can be Wonder Woman?” Dipper says.

**  
  
**

“Hello?”

**  
  
**

Mabel jolts out of their conversation, turning to the dark-skinned woman at the desk.

 

 

“Are we checking in?” the woman asks.

**  
  
**

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” Dipper says, sheepishly. “Sorry.”

**  
  
**

“That’s fine,” the lady - Mrs. Golia - says. “I have a sister. I understand sibling banter.”

**  
  
**

Mabel chuckles, tersely. She wishes she didn’t have to go to school. She wishes she could sit here and poke fun with her brother all day long and never have to worry about a thing.

**  
  
**

But then there’s Dipper’s hand, warm as ever, in between her shoulder blades and gently nudging her to the sign-in counter.

**  
  
**

“Names?” Mrs. Golia asks.

**  
  
**

“Ah - uh, Dipper and Mabel Pines,” Dipper says.

**  
  
**

Mabel swallows around her dry throat. Fine, fine, she was going to be fine - she won’t go home and see her mother and hug her, but she’ll still love her, even if she isn’t there to see. That’s enough.

**  
  
**

It will be. She just has to try. If she ever gets tired of trying, she’s got Dipper to fall back on, because he’s always there, waiting, just in case. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

**  
  
**

School is no big deal. She’s stared down monsters, zombies, demons, she even rode a pegasus once - she can do this.

**  
  
**

“Oh!” Mrs. Golia says, and scribbles down their names on their respective passes. “I have something for the both of you, courtesy of my wife.”

**  
  
**

Mabel blinks.

**  
  
**

Mrs. Golia leans down and pulls out two small packages. “She works at Godiva,” she explains. “She made you gift baskets, on the house. She also told me to tell you that you can stop in for free ice cream whenever you’d like.”

**  
  
**

Mabel’s cheeks flush. Not because she was embarrassed - just overwhelmed. It wasn’t pity, just a helping hand, extended to the both of them when they needed it. Her eyes start to water.

**  
  
**

“Oh my gosh,” she gushes. “You’re - you’re both - tell her I said thank you, so, so much.”

**  
  
**

Dipper chuckles, taking his basket and pocketing it. “Thank you, Mrs. Golia.”

**  
  
**

Mrs. Golia gives them a warm smile. “It’s not a problem. If you ever do need anything, don’t be afraid to come to me.”

**  
  
**

Mabel nods. “Can-do will-do, Mrs. G!”

**  
  
**

Mrs. Golia slides them their passes, and the twins are on their way.

**  
  
**

Mabel pops a chocolate into her mouth.

 

“Sweet mercy,” she says. “This is the bestest most incrediblest thing I have ever tasted.”

**  
  
**

She looks over - Dipper was already on his third. “Jeeze! Dipster, didn’t we just eat breakfast?”

**  
  
**

He glares at her and pops a fourth truffle into his mouth. “I am a growing boy, thank you very much.”

**  
  
**

“Who just ate, like, eight pancakes. Seriously. You took my chocolate ones!”

**  
  
**

Dipper shrugs. “Get downstairs faster next time.”

**  
  
**

“I’m feeling a little competition here,” she says. She jabs a thumb at her chest. “I am Queen Sugarspice. You are a Twizzler-loving traitor.”

**  
  
**

“Twizzlers are the bomb,” he says. “Fight me.”

**  
  
**

“Oh, you wanna go?” she threatens, raising a fist. “You wanna throw down?”

**  
  
**

Dipper grins. “Totally, right here, right now.”

**  
  
**

“Oh, it’s on, Twinkletoes -”

**  
  
**

Dipper darts in and jabs her side, causing Mabel to buck. “No! Tickle spots are off limits!”

**  
  
**

“Not in this reality!” He replies, darting in for another two-faced attack.

**  
  
**

“I substitute your reality with my own!” she shouts, and cracks their heads together.

**  
  
**

Not the best idea. Dipper stumbles backwards and she has to hold on to the wall to keep from falling down. That was way easier when they were twelve.

**  
  
**

“That was a much better idea when we were twelve,” Dipper says, voicing her thoughts.

**  
  
**

“My reality sucks,” she moans. “I give up. You win, you back-stabbing, jerky-turkey.”

**  
  
**

Dipper sticks his tongue out at her, and then unravels his chocolate bar and takes a bite.

**  
  
**

Mabel rubs her forehead. “I demand a rematch after school.”

**  
  
**

“Meet me in the pit,” Dipper says, taking another bite.

 

Mabel fishes out her packet and pulls out the raspberry-filled one. “Here.”

**  
  
**

Dipper eyes it suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

**  
  
**

“Of course!” she says. “You know how I feel about raspberry filling and chocolate.”

**  
  
**

“‘It’s a disgusting affront to humanity and you’re going to abolish it when you’re president’,” he quotes, pocketing the candy bar.

**  
  
**

“Hells yeah,” she says.

**  
  
**

They’d walked deep into the center of the school, and were turning down the English hall.

 

“Ready to brave Mr. Beaton?” she asks.

**  
  
**

Dipper sighs. “Don’t remind me.”

**  
  
**

Mabel grins. “He _luuuuuuurves_ me, though.”

**  
  
**

“Ugh,” Dipper groans, and they open the door to an analysis of Jane Eyre.

**  
  
**

-

**  
  
**

That’s how the majority of their day went.

**  
  
**

Mabel and Dipper were lucky enough to have three of their four classes together, but they were split apart after third. Mabel was to attend Cosmetics and Dipper was dragged off to a science class halfway across the school.

 

The cosmetics room wafts a scent of honey and hairspray on most days, courtesy of Ms. Beckley's taste in Scentsy. The lights were overly bright, which didn't help make the ghastly, pale yellow walls any nicer to look at. The desks were covered in an assortment of lewd drawings and curses written in every color of pen under the sun. The practice dolls - which looked disturbingly like decapitated heads - were typically strewn about the room, giving it a cluttered and claustrophobic feeling.

 **  
  
** That's not what she hates about this place; it's the pale-skinned girl with the furious red hair. As soon as she walks in through the door, Mabel knows that she’s in for an hour and thirty minutes of hell.

**  
  
**

“Oh, look,” Melanie Wright, her table partner, sneers. “She dared to show her face today.”

**  
  
**

Mabel swallows down her bitterness and replaces it with a beaming smile. “Hello!”

**  
  
**

Melanie wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, freak. So? What happened to Mommy Dearest last week?”

**  
  
**

Mabel flinches, and Melanie’s grin turns nasty. “What, don’t want to fill us in?”

**  
  
**

_She's not this cruel, really,_ Mabel thinks. _It's a joke. She'll stop._

 

Marco, one of Melanie’s cronies, speaks up. “C’mon, sweetcheeks, tell us about that juicy gossip.”

**  
  
**

Mabel sits down hesitantly. It takes a couple of swallows to find her voice. “There’s nothing much to say.”

**  
  
**

“Do it quick, while MacBeth is out of the room. No batty teacher over your shoulders,” Giani says, from the seat directly behind Mabel.

**  
  
**

“My dad said she had triangles carved into her arms,” Melanie says. _Of course,_ Mabel thinks. _Her dad’s an EMT._

**  
  
**

Mabel is dimly aware that she’s shaking. She pulls out Mrs. Golia’s gift. “Chocolate?” she offers, weakly. _Please, leave me alone_.

**  
  
**

Melanie snatches the whole bag out of her hand. “Thanks for the donation.”

**  
  
**

“Ooh - any with raspberry filling?” Marco asks, pulling the bag from Melanie’s grasp. “Ah, what! It’s not a gift bag without raspberry filling!”

**  
  
**

Mabel grins to herself, victorious. She’s suddenly viciously glad that she’d given the raspberry bar to Dipper earlier.

**  
  
**

Giani slaps him in the back of the head.

**  
  
**

“Give me all the gorey deets,” Melanie says. “I’m just curious, y’know. Can’t even blame me. I’m gonna be a psychologist.”

**  
  
**

_That’s not why you’re asking,_ Mabel thinks, but she doesn’t voice anything. _Keep the smile. Keep the smile._

**  
  
**

“Yeah,” Marco says. “What’s with the triangles, anyway? Why not ovals? Those are rad as heck.”

**  
  
**

“... The definition of oval is literally ‘it’s kinda egg-shaped.’”

**  
  
**

“Shut it, Gi.”

**  
  
**

Melanie leans close enough for Mabel to catch a whiff of her strawberry-scented breath. “Why’d she commit, though? Didn’t she have, like, the perfect life?”

**  
  
**

“Please, stop asking,” Mabel says. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

 

 _She's got to be joking,_ Mabel thinks. _People don't do this. People can't possibly be this bad. I didn't do anything to them. They'll stop._

**  
  
**

“Yeah, Mels,” Giani says, her tone joking. “You’re being nosy.”

**  
  
**

“Oh, dear me,” Melanie says. “And stop interrupting me! I’ve still got psych class. I can do my thesis on this.”

**  
  
**

“Don’t,” Mabel snaps.

**  
  
**

Melanie leans in close, this time, and whispers, “I heard your brother was covered in blood.”

**  
  
**

Mabel freezes. 

 

 

“Stop!” Mabel shouts. “I told you to stop!”

**  
  
**

Melanie jerks back, but keeps smiling that _damned_ smile. “So, that’s what presses your buttons? Your brother? Do you even care about your mom?”

**  
  
**

Mabel feels tears spring to her eyes.

**  
  
**

“Mels,” Giani says. “I’m being serious. Not cool.”

**  
  
**

“Y-yeah,” Marco says, shaky. “Back off.”

**  
  
**

“You think she killed herself because of you?” Melanie says, and something in Mabel snaps.

**  
  
**

“You know what?” she growls. “You’re damn right it’s not cool. It wasn’t cool to begin with.” She turns to Melanie. “And you - you -”

**  
  
**

“... I’m right, aren’t I?” Melanie says, eyes gleaming. “I’m totally right. Oh, this is _gold._ ”

**  
  
**

Mabel stands there, unaware of when she had actually stood up. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish. She’s trembling and sweaty all over and incredibly aware of the stares that prickle against her skin like tiny needles.

**  
  
**

Mabel doesn’t waste any time. She turns on her heel and storms off, flustered and embarrassed and three seconds from bursting into tears.

**  
  
**

“Witch!” Melanie calls after her.

**  
  
**

On her way out, she crashes into Ms. Beckley, who was often dubbed MacBeth by her students for her strange love of Shakespeare. The short, thin teacher collapses to the ground.

**  
  
**

“Ms. Pines!? What on Earth -”

**  
  
**

“I’m sorry,” Mabel says, choking around her tears. “I didn’t mean to - my mom - I’ve gotta. I’ve gotta go, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

**  
  
**

“Ms. Pines!” Ms. Beckley snaps. “What do you think you’re -”

**  
  
**

Mabel had already taken off down the hall, the wind stinging her wet cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ms. Beckley!” she shouts.

**  
  
**

Mabel runs away from that horrible classroom until she’s reached the girl’s bathroom in the lobby, which she ducks into immediately. (‘Ducked’ wasn’t even an exaggeration. They didn’t make doors tall enough.)

**  
  
**

She leans down to get a look at herself in the grimy mirror. Her tears have streaked the makeup she’d been wearing, and she rubs a sweater sleeve over it self-consciously. At least she hadn’t seen anyone in the hallway.

**  
  
**

Her hair is its usual, cascading, wavy fluff of dark brown hair that framed a blotchy red face that framed big, red eyes. There wasn’t any fixing that; once she’d started crying, the redness of her eyes wouldn’t fade for a good four hours.

**  
  
**

She would have to go back there soon. Someone from the office would be sent to search for her, and she’d be subjected to a harsh punishment for ditching.

**  
  
**

Mabel finds herself not wanting to go back. She doesn’t want to be here. Nobody could have asked her to be ready for that, and it isn’t fair to herself to think that she should’ve been.

**  
  
**

She pulls out her phone and texts Dipper.

**  
  
**

_‘rough cosmo class. :(‘_

**  
  
**

She settles herself against the wall of the girls’ bathroom, slowing her breathing and replaying the scene in her mind. The more she did, the less she liked herself.

**  
  
**

It didn’t take long for Dipper to respond.

**  
  
**

_‘You can leave if you need to.’_

**  
  
**

God, it was like he knew what she was thinking, even when he was all the way across the school!

**  
  
**

_‘i was thinking about it, lol’_

**  
  
**

Dipper replies almost immediately.

**  
  
**

_‘I can skip class.’_

**  
  
**

_‘don’t. jackson’ll get angry at you’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Well, fuck Jackson. You’re more important.’_

**  
  
**

Mabel grins at the phone - but then remembers what Melanie had said. He was the one covered in blood that night - their mother’s blood. A stone settles in her stomach. She doesn't want to ask, of course. She doesn't want to think about anyone being covered in blood, much less her brother. But it's something she never thought about, it's something she never considered; she owes it to him to ask, whether he wants to talk about it or not.

 

_‘dipper?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Yeah?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘does it ever bother you?’_

**  
  
**

_‘What does/’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘*?’_

_**  
  
** _

Mabel stares at her phone for a while. Maybe it was a little personal. Should she even ask?

**  
  
**

_‘remember how melanie’s dad is an emt?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Yeah..?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘she told me that he said that you were’_

**  
  
**

Mabel stopped typing, but then mentally slapped herself. This was Dipper. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t talk to him about.

**  
  
**

She finishes the text and sends it.

**  
  
**

In the pause that follows, she can feel Dipper thinking about her question, mulling it over in his big, dumb brain. She wonders if she’s just hit on something, some facet to the problem that she hadn’t encountered before.

**  
  
**

_‘It did, I guess. I mean - I didn’t realize it? But I remember the feeling. It - it doesn’t creep me out NOW, even though i know that, ostensibly, it’s totally creepy. I don’t know what to say. Did that even make sense? I don’t know.’_

**  
  
**

_‘i got what you meant :) around the big fancy words, lmfao. u can figure out what to say and talk to me about it later’_

**  
  
**

She worries her lip, and then begins to type.

**  
  
**

_‘i’m busting out of here :D totally getting redbox movies and i call a movie night’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘You sure you don’t need me?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘pffft i am wonder woman i got this ;) now u go do ur big dumb brainy thing and u show jackson who’s the real boss’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Yeah, right.’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘... you think g would let me out’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Totally. She thinks you’re great.’_

**  
  
**

_‘IM GOING OUT THE FRONT DOOR’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Uh, seriously? Sure you don’t want to use the one beside the cafeteria?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘i am a boss this is not how we do things dipshit’_

**  
  
**

And with that, Mabel pockets her phone. She realizes that she’d left most of her things in Ms. Beckley’s room, but she’d just go back and collect them before class tomorrow. She had a habit of just carrying around her bookbag instead of stopping by her locker - it was faster, anyway.

**  
  
**

At least, though, her keys are in her purse, which was still fastened firmly across her chest. Then another problem occurs to her, and she pulls out her phone.

**  
  
**

_‘... can i take our car?’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Go for it.’_

**  
  
**

Oh, man. She really had a great brother.

**  
  
**

_‘i’ll pick you up totes mcgotes’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘Don’t worry about it. But that’d be nice. Just saying.’_

_**  
  
** _

_‘i got u i got u’_

**  
  
**

Mabel slides her Android into her back pocket, and leaves the bathroom.

**  
  
**

-

**  
  
**

Getting out of school was easy, but this wasn’t.

**  
  
**

She’d had a faint idea of where she was going when Mrs. Golia had agreed to sneak her out, but now that it’s coming to fruition, she’s sure she isn’t actually ready.

**  
  
**

She tightens her grip on the flowers in her hand; her palms _ sweaty, and the slick plastic threatening to slide out of her hand. She’d only bought three roses - a blue one, a pink one, and a red one.

The walk to her mother’s grave was harder than expected. She wished Grunkle Stan hadn’t left town that morning. She wished she’d told Dipper to ditch with her.

**  
  
**

But Melanie’s words rang in her head, and she knew; she had to do this alone. This was her apology. She wasn’t going to lean on anyone, she wasn’t going to use someone else’s courage.

**  
  
**

She had this. Totally.

**  
  
**

When she arrives at the top of the hill, she finds her eyes wandering over her mother’s headstone. There is an angel carved into it, flowy robes and wings spread wide. The setting sun, far in the west, cast long, navy blue shadows over the angel’s features, making the guardian look more compelling - more grim.

**  
  
**

Mabel carefully sets the roses in the angel’s waiting arms, slipping them out of the plastic.

**  
  
**

Then, she sits down on her knees, facing the headstone like it was her mother, a real, live living thing that could hug her and love her and care about her. Tears flow out of her eyes, but she doesn’t dare to stop them.

**  
  
**

“Hi, mom,” she says. “I know - whatever you’re doing right now - you must be pretty busy, with all that afterlife stuff. I get it. But I… I wondered if you were watching, earlier today. I don’t know how you’d do that. Maybe there’s a magic looking glass.”

**  
  
**

She sighs. “I’m sorry, for - for what I didn’t do. What I didn’t see. It’s not my fault, I know - but. Maybe I could’ve helped. Who knows?” She stops, hiccuping. “M-maybe you’d be alive now! I don’t know what I’m saying, or if you can hear me, or…”

**  
  
**

She trails off. She lifts a finger, shaky and pale, and begins to trace her mother’s name, carved into the headstone; _Marcella Arizi Mariolo-Pines._

**  
  
**

“I wasn’t - I wasn’t ready to lose you,” Mabel whispers. Her heart stops beating.

**  
  
**

She throws herself against the cold headstone, thoughts racing like a tempest, heart thrumming and thrumming, palpitating against her sternum like a racehorse. Mabel’s eyes squeezed shut, hot, salty liquid leaking out and running down her nose and she felt gross and ugly but she didn’t care.

**  
  
**

She wanted her mom. She wanted her back, would give anything to crush her slim figure into a hug and be able to tell her how much she loved her -

**  
  
**

“I wasn’t ready to lose you.”

**  
  
**

Mabel’s eyes snap open. She flew backward, backpedaling as fast as she could.

 **  
  
** The ghost chuckles. “Sorry, honey, it’s a little hard to manifest with roses. Orchids are easier, I believe, but I haven’t had the experience to know for sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed that one, I wrote it at midnight, haha. As of now, chapter three is written but unedited, and chapter four is currently under construction - basically, this team's on a roll. List all questions, applications and/or concerns below! Positive feedback keeps these chapters going, remember.
> 
> Here's your tip; if you think there's a detail that's being exaggerated, there's a 1000% chance that you've caught on to something. ;)


	3. R MVVW HLNV HPVKGRXZOH ULI GSRH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for bullying, a passing mention of suicide, various descriptions of past injuries, and a small abrasion later on. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

There’s a tight feeling in her chest that’s taking up all the room her heart needs to work. Her breath comes in short, thick gasps, harsh enough to wound Mabel’s throat even in the cool California air.

 

“Sorry,” Marcella repeats. It sounded like she was speaking from the other side of a fan. “I have been having a… difficult time.”

 

A difficult time.  _A difficult time!?_

 

“You’ve been having a difficult time!?” Mabel snaps, but immediately balks. “I’m - I didn’t mean that.”

 

“It’s quite alright.”

 

Mabel finds herself at a loss for words, and that’s a rare occurrence enough. It feels like everything in her had stopped working, and that she would collapse - or wake up - any second. It feels like a dream. It feels like a nightmare.

 

Marcella - her mom - was sitting on one of the angel’s broad, carefully sculpted wings. The nightgown she had died in swirled in a nonexistent, supernatural breeze. Her short, dark hair swirled around her features, sharp and angled. She just looked like a glow-y, float-y person.

 

She didn’t look like the ghosts Mabel remembered from Gravity Falls.

 

“M-mom,” she whispers.

 

Her mom smiles, teeth blindingly white. “Mabel - oh,  _God,_  Mabel.”

 

Her mom was in front of her without hardly any effort, disappearing between one place and the next like a - ghost. _A ghost._  Her mom is still dead, she just had unfinished business.

 

Mabel sobs. “Mom.”

 

Marcella’s hands are suddenly on her shoulders. She could see them - even imagined she could hear the air flow through her fingers as she moved them - but she couldn’t feel them. All she felt was a sudden, cold numbness, like a cold spot in water.

 

“Mabel,” she says. “I’m so,  _so_  sorry. And I - I hope you can understand, one day. I really do.”

 

Mabel backtracks mentally. Everything was wrong. Everything was bad, and odd, and weird and strange and _this_ _isn’t_ _right._

 

“Wait - you’re a ghost. I’m not shocked at all. How are you not, y’know, questioning this?”

 

“I saw the journal Dipper brought back with him,” Marcella answers. Mabel notices, now that she was close, that her eyes are solid white. It strengthens the knot in her stomach.

 

_This isn’t right, this isn’t right._

 

“How did you know -”

 

“The Pines family isn’t the only supernaturally-inclined family in the world,” Marcella states, like that's not terrifying, like Mabel isn't imagining hundreds of people looking the way Dipper did on that day five years ago. 

 

_I wasn’t going to ask anything about that_ , Mabel thinks.  _How did she know the journal was about the supernatural?_

 

The gears in Mabel’s head sputter. “What? You - you -  _all this time_ , you knew,  _you knew_ , and you didn’t tell us!”

 

_What’s going on?_

 

Marcella blinks. “You didn’t tell me, either.”

 

The response brought Mabel up short. They hadn’t, had they? “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

 

“I don’t blame you,” Marcella assures. Mabel feels a cold wind as her mom’s ghostly hand entwines itself in her hair. “You have such beautiful, long hair, dear. I really wish I hadn’t cut mine. Oh - you need a trim! These split ends -”

 

Mabel blinks back tears. She’d missed this - this thing they did, moms. The way they picked and needled and showed their loved by prodding and pushing. She hated it. But it was what made them moms.

 

“You didn’t come to talk about my split ends,” Mabel complains. “And, jeeze! They can’t be that bad.”

 

Marcella’s face darkens. “I didn’t, did I? And, yes, dear, they very much are. Please schedule a haircut.”

 

Mabel sighs, rolling her eyes, but grins anyway. Something like elation had sprung into her chest, like flowers reclaiming a patch of weeds. But her head was still reeling, still jumping and hissing, screaming,  _danger._  


Marcella moves her hands back to Mabel’s shoulders and grips them hard, eyes meeting Mabel's. 

 

“I need to teach you something,” she says.

 

Mabel blinks. “How to call the hairdresser?” 

 

“No. Magic. Specifically, blood magic -”

 

“ - no,” Mabel says, shaking her head. “I don’t want to. I want to wake up. This is a dream.”

 

Marcella’s expression softens. “You’re perfectly awake, honey.”

 

“No, no, no,” Mabel says. “I don’t want to. No supernatural stuff. I’m  _done._  Me and Dipper both swore it off five years ago.”

 

Marcella blinks. “Why?”

 

Mabel swallows against the fear in her throat - it tastes like blood. She feels like she’s drowning in it, the blood, like her head had been pushed under and if she took a breath it’d be in her lungs. It slides over her skin, the same way she remembered. “Topic change!”

 

She can’t do this now, not now. Not - not that.

 

If Marcella noticed her discomfort, she didn’t let her know.

 

“Mabel, listen to me. There’s a… a storm coming. A bad moon’s rising. There’s something out there,” she gestures to the sprawling cityscape in the east, “that’s awakening.”

 

“This sounds like a cheesy Harry Potter fanfiction,” Mabel says. “Mom - please, just, _go back._  Okay, that sounds rude, but -”

 

Marcella looks affronted. “I know what’s best for you, and that’s why I’m here. And give me some credit, darling, I’m trying.”

 

Mabel shakes her head. “This isn’t happening. It’s not. My mom’s completely normal!”

 

“A normal mother wouldn’t be saving your life right now,” Marcella says. “You’re lucky to have me.”

 

“No!” Mabel screams. “I told you, I don’t want anything to do with it!”

 

Why are people pushing her past her limits today?

 

“You do,” Marcella growls. “You were born into this.”

 

“You weren’t there,” Mabel says, gesticulating madly. “You weren’t  _there!_  You didn’t see it - you didn’t - you haven’t seen what I have.  _You haven’t!”_

 

_You didn’t see him,_  she meant to say.  _You don’t have nightmares about it. You don’t wake up screaming. You don’t get nervous that your brother isn’t going to be there when you turn around._  


Marcella gives her that knowing parental smirk that all children hate. “I’ve seen it. I’ve been there. But you have to trust me.”

 

“Why?” Mabel asks.

 

“Because everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for this family,” she says.

 

_Grunkle Stan, I trust you._

 

“Now listen to me,” Marcella says, taking Mabel’s hands and unfolding the fingers that had balled into fists. “You have a talent. Magic is in your blood on two sides of your family. And the things out there - they can smell it. And they want it.”

 

She shudders.

 

“I’ve dealt with them before,” Mabel says. “I can do it again. Watch me.”

 

Marcella chuckles, dryly. “There’s a new beast on the horizon, Mabel. You’re not ready this time.”

 

She takes a leaf out of Dipper’s book and says, dryly, “I don’t see anything.”

 

Marcella glares at her. “Oh, no. There’s two of them. Honestly, your brother was enough. Really, let me explain.”

 

Mabel rips her hands back and crossed her arms. “Hit it.”

 

“I can teach you blood magic,” she says. “This is an offer. I can’t keep coming back. If you don’t accept, you willingly leave yourself defenseless. I - I can’t help you after that.”

 

_My mother came back from the dead and all she wants to talk about is magic._

 

“Don’t think like that,” she admonishes.

 

“Were you reading my thoughts?” Mabel hisses.

 

_I hope you can hear me,_  she thinks, harshly.  _This is my head. Stay out. I’ve had enough of that._

 

Marcella flinches. “Honey, I’m sorry -”

 

She looks lost, ghostly shoulders slumped and tired. Mabel realizes that she didn’t want _ this. That involving her daughter in the realm of the paranormal was the last thing she wanted. The lines on her face looked drawn, exhausted; she looked purposefully tired, like Dipper sometimes did when he stayed up late researching for his history papers. Like she knew what she was doing, but didn’t want to  _have_  to do it.

 

Mabel’s anger deflated. “No, no, it’s okay. Just… please, don’t.”

 

She looks relieved. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite used to the specter idea.”

 

“Mom… you’ve gotta understand,” Mabel pleads. “All of this - it’s only ever - it’s only ruined things. I mean... “

 

Marcella shakes her head. “You have to trust me.”

 

“I do,” Mabel says. “I’m just - I’m not willing to do it. I can’t.”

 

“You can. You will. There’s so much at stake here, Mabel,” she says. “You don’t understand, yet. I never wanted you to - but there’s no option left.”

 

Never had Mabel thought of her mother as being an objective person. She’d always thought her mother had run on a live-in-the-moment way; she was the person who inspired Mabel to be who she was, exactly the way she was. Her mom was the foundation to everything she knew.

 

She didn’t even know her mom. She wondered what she actually did know, if everything really  _was_ a conspiracy like that dumb triangle used to say.

 

She needed stability. She needed Dipper.

 

“Mom, I’m sorry,” she says.

 

“You have to,” Marcella says. “It’s for the best.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Before it’s too late,” Marcella says. “We need to begin immediately.”

 

She has burning questions; one, in particular, was making her mind do somersaults. Melanie’s words wreathe through her head like a toxin.

 

“Why did you do it?” Mabel blurts, but then brings her hands to her mouth. She hadn’t meant to actually ask.

 

“You don’t need to know,” Marcella answers, immediately.

 

That was fast. That was  _too_  fast. Mabel really didn’t know what to make of that.

 

“I need -”

 

_CRASH!_  
  


Mabel whirls around. “Oh, God, that sounded like breaking glass - “ she turns around to face the ghost again. “Can you -”

 

Gone. She was _gone._

 

“Mom?” she calls.

 

Nothing - not a breeze. Mabel’s shoulders slump. She hadn’t noticed how comfortable the ghost’s presence was until it was gone.

 

She furiously rubs at her runny nose. “Okay,” she says. “Wow.”

 

“... What am I doing?” she asks the stone angel. “Why am I here?”

 

The question falls to the ground like lead. “Mom?” she asks, again. Her voice is quiet and soft, making her feel all of nine years old.

 

Was that whole thing a dream? It had to be. There was no way - everything had happened so fast, so _un-Mom-like_ , so strange and weird. She’d been underwater for too long, and she needed to come up for air. This was nothing. She fell asleep here.

 

She recognizes the fact that she’s in denial. But nobody ever said she had to come back here; with any luck, her mother’s ghost would never approach her again.

 

Mabel trots down the hill, anxious to get away from the angel with the boring eyes and the roses and her mother’s ghost.

 

When she gets to the parking lot, she’s just able to glimpse a car pulling out of the exit. She begins to walk forward - maybe she could get a better look at the model -

 

and then falls face-first, hands thrown out to break her fall. A sharp, hot pain sears through her left hand and her left knee as they made harsh contact with the ground.

 

She is shaky when she stands up, grimacing at the sting. Standing on her tip-toes to catch the yellow light of the lamppost, she carefully inspects her palm; broken shards of glass. Which meant…

 

She turns to look at the driver’s window. Shattered. The air in her lungs flies out in a rush.  _Seriously?_

 

The corner of her eyes catch red - and there  _it_  is. She holds a hand to her mouth in shock. The red spraypaint was hastily applied and messy, but the writing is still legible;

 

_WITCH._

 

Mabel sank to the ground, not caring that she’s sitting on broken glass, not caring that she’s facing her slashed tires. She doesn’t care that she doesn’t have a way home, she doesn’t care that it was dark out and she doesn’t care that people were probably looking for her.

 

Her mother was dead, she might be seeing things, and these people hated her - she didn’t even know what she’d _done._  What did she ever do to them?

 

She pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead down and shutting herself off from the rest of the world. She is suddenly glad she’d parked next to the abandoned car with a ‘For Sale’ sign stuck in the back window - it offered protection.

 

She needed some.

 

She wasn’t ready to lose her mom, she wasn’t ready for these people and their cruel jokes, she wasn’t ready to learn blood magic - she just wants to go home and for everything to be normal. She wants Grunkle Stan to come down from Gravity Falls and live with them, and she wants Wendy and Soos and Pacifica and Grenda and Candy.

 

That in and of itself was horrible, because she never wanted to think of Gravity Falls again, because it made her hands itch to touch her brother and make sure he was real. Alive.

 

She wanted more. She wasn’t going to get more.

 

She sobs into her crossed arms and rocks back and forth

 

Then a car pulls up beside hers, loud and jarring. She wishes it would go away and burn in hell. She didn’t want to talk right now.

 

She pulls the neck of her sweater over her nose and eyes, so all she could smell is her sweat and all she could hear was her breathing. So what if the stranger is a murderer? Right now, she didn’t have the strength to care.

 

The car door slams. She knows it’s Dipper as soon as he starts walking - he had a small jump in his gait, like a hiccup in his step, from where he’d all but ruined his knee in Gravity Falls.

 

He settles beside her, close, but quiet. Good. She didn’t think she could deal with talking.

 

However, she does slip a hand out through her sleeve and grabs his hand. He rubs a thumb over her knuckles, deftly; somehow, the roughness of his hands comforting instead of annoying.

 

The seconds stretch into minutes, and she gets tired of smelling her own sweat. Dipper fidgets beside her.

 

She pulls the neck of her sweater down, taking a gulp of much-needed, sweet air. “Hey,” she murmurs.

 

“Looked for you all over town,” he replies, flicking a rock with his finger.

 

“Had a wild night on the town,” she says. “You couldn’t have tracked me down.”

 

“I tried,” he says, with his queer, half-grin. “You never replied.”

 

She pulls out her phone.  _Thirty-seven voice messages?_

 

“That’s creepy stalker territory,” she says. “Thirty seven?”

 

Dipper shrugs. “Eh.”

 

They lapse into heavy silence. It’s awkward, in a way; because she is guilty, and he is sorry, and those two only mixed well inside of one person. With two people, it’s like a swirling storm cloud, two tired individuals who couldn’t quite muster the strength to speak.

 

And then Dipper’s stomach growls.

 

Mabel cracks up. Of all things, it would be Dipper’s stomach to ruin the mood.

 

Dipper laughs with her, but his face was still furiously red. “Don’t judge me,” he says.

 

She leans against his shoulder. “They slashed the tires, by the way.”

 

“Oh, damn,” Dipper groans. “Looks like I have to do more than just kill them.”

 

Mabel chuckles. “Don’t strain yourself,” she teases, and pokes his arm. “Like, you need more muscle mass for that.”

 

“You’re lying. I totally have muscles. They exist,” Dipper says, leaning back until he’s laying against the ground. Mabel stays firmly pressed against his shoulder.

 

It was a very Pines kind of thing to do - to cuddle over broken glass in the deserted parking lot of a cemetery. Prime sibling bonding time.

 

“No, they don’t,” Mabel retorts.

 

“You just don’t want to admit it,” he says.

 

“I  _will_  fight you on this,” Mabel shot back.

 

“We never met up for our rematch,” Dipper replies.

 

Mabel thinks for a minute. “I’m too tired for all that shizbangle.”

 

“Shizbangle. Incredible,” Dipper says.

 

“We’re lying on broken glass,” she murmurs.

 

“I was hoping you’d notice so I had an excuse to move,” he says, nudging her. His eyes catch sight of her hand. “Shit, Mabes - you’re bleeding.”

 

She looks at her hand. Oh. “Whoopsie.”

 

“For the love of -” Dipper takes her hand and inspects it. His expression shifts to grim, the most obviously serious one he could muster. “I don’t know… this looks fatal, Ms. Pines.” His tone had changed to match his expression; he sounds like a doctor breaking bad news on one of those midday TV shows.

 

He looks down at her with a quirked eyebrow, and Mabel giggles. “Oh, good heavens, Doctor,” she says, mocking the best dramatic accent she could. “Whatever will I do?”

 

“Can you hang on, Ms. Pines?” he says, seriously, giving her the world’s most ridiculous stare. “Can you?”

 

Mabel bursts into a fit of giggles, and pulls her hand away. “Dipper -” she wheezes.

 

It was too close. Too close. She couldn’t  _not_  bring it up.

 

He turns to her. “What?”  


“Remember - can you feel it, Mr. Krabs -”

 

“Oh my God!” Dipper bats her lightly on the head. “Don’t you - I am  _traumatized_!” 

 

“That was hilarious and you know it -”

 

“We’re leaving,” Dipper announces, and snatches her uninjured hand. “We are exiting the building.”

 

“We’re outside,” Mabel says.

 

“That too,” he says.

 

Mabel laughs, and pushes him behind her. “I am the captain of this mission.”

 

“Mabel, you can’t drive -”

 

She turns to him.  _“Dippy,”_  she whines.

 

Dipper glares at her. “Absolutely not.”

 

“You’re overprotective,” she says, but Mabel lets him drag her to the passenger’s side of the truck and buckle her in anyway.

 

“More like I want to survive,” he says. “You drive like a maniac normally. With an injured hand? I don’t want to imagine.”

 

Mabel grumbles to herself. She wasn’t _that_ bad. Twice the speed limit isn’t maniacal.

 

“Wait a second,” he says. “And by the way, I’m totally paying for it, so don’t worry.”

 

“Oh, no,” she says. “If you need surgery, please don’t.”

 

“Try and stop me,” he says. She doesn’t turn around to see what he’s doing, but a couple seconds later, she hears a metallic slam, which must have been their dad’s toolbox.

 

The he comes around the driver’s side of the truck holding a crowbar. He stands for a second, like he’s mentally debating something, and then swings. Hard.

 

The windshield shatters - taking the spraypainted word with it. Mabel stares at her brother, wide-eyed.

 

Dipper slides into the driver’s side and lays the crowbar in the area down by her feet. “I hope Melanie Wright crawls into a ditch.”

 

Mabel slaps his arm, but doesn’t respond. He doesn’t push the subject - he’d probably noticed the way her frown had deepened.

 

“I got the movies, by the way,” he says.

 

Mabel grins. “Badly timed all-nighter time?”

 

“Badly timed all-nighter time.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, haha! I can't leave this fic hanging for too long, I have too many big plans. I'm hoping to get somewhere good before the next episode throws me off completely. As always, a huge, huge, HUGE thanks to notadashi. She's absolutely incredible and you should definitely go follow her on tumblr immediately. She's an A+ person. She's the reason this fic is updating, I tell you! If you enjoy it, send her your thanks!
> 
> I work faster, as always, with constructive criticism - so leave all questions, comments, and stuff of the sort below! I love all of you who have taken the time to look at this, it really means so much, and if you need to hit me up for anything, I'm jerseydevious on tumblr.


	4. OLDU PRQVWHU SLFNB HDWHU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warning for blood and extensive injury in the first half of this chapter! Take care, y'all! I hope you enjoy it.

Naturally, they both fall asleep somewhere around midnight, one after the other.

 

Dipper slips into the nightmares first; he always has. His head twists around the darkest parts of life a lot easier than Mabel’s. He wakes up screaming and shaking more often than not, and sometimes spends hours jumping at stray shadows afterwards. His imagination, quite frankly, is a bitch.

 

He can’t move, in the dream. He can feel the wet, rough concrete against the exposed skin of his back, he can feel the cold rain hitting his skin. Compared to the soft, dry feel of the couch, it's a sensory overload. Hair - long and soft - is splayed over his shoulders. 

 

He’s not in his own body. 

 

Those are the worst ones; there’s nothing he can do but watch as his head takes another hapless victim, and then he has to wake up and see them the next day, or hear their voice, or hear of them. The guilt that comes with it is unbearable, though he’s not sure why - it’s just a dream, after all. A nightmare. He never did anything. But sometimes he can't help but think, _I killed you inside my own head. I was there with you while you died. I heard you screaming and begging for mercy. I don't even remember what killed you, because I didn't try hard enough to._

 

There’s a rough sound to Dipper’s right - but he can’t look. It's not his body to look with. 

 

It’s rough, a half-bleat, half-roar, like the T-Rex from _Jurassic Park_ was swallowing an angry deer whole. It's deep, horrid, and dissonant, rattling the bones of the body he's taking residence in with pure, unadulterated fear.

 

Dipper would flinch, wince, probably run if he could. But he can’t. He can’t save whoever’s body this is; he _never_ can. That's what keeps his hands shaking in the dark of night, that heavy, crippling helplessness, long after the nightmare and its memory are gone.

 

There's a scraping noise against the concrete - hooves. Don't underestimate something that moves on hooves. Never underestimate the things that come along in dreams. 

 

There’s a snuff to his right, close enough to blow hot, rotten breath against his face. Dipper internally gags. Really, is it too much to ask for a monster to brush its teeth? 

 

Fear blooms in Dipper’s chest. He can’t see it, he can’t do anything, and this person is going to die. He doesn’t know who he is in relation to this girl - enemy, friend, whatever - but he’s sure he probably doesn’t want her to die. And he doesn’t want to feel her dying, anyway.

 

The girl stirs - she must have been knocked unconscious somehow. Her breath hitches. Her arms are in motion, trying to push herself up and away as fast as possible -

 

the beast’s paw clamps down on her leg, and Dipper gets his first look at it. His stomach does somersaults.

 

It looks like someone took a bear’s paw and stretched it into human proportions. It’s distinctly wide, the fingers had a bearish look, but were mobile, like a person’s. It had a terrible Frankenstein look that made Dipper want to abandon any and all curiosity and run, run, run. The worst part, though, were the razor-sharp claws, shiny and black and pulling thin rivulets of blood from her skin. One paw is enough to spread over and around both of her ankles with ease. 

 

The girl screams and tries to pull away. Dipper knows it’s a bad move before it even becomes one, because the monster's claws just dig in deeper, the wicked curves catching in bone.

 

Her back bumps into the beast’s other paw.

 

She knows she’s doomed. After hearing the monster’s hungry growl, Dipper knows she’s worse than doomed.

 

The girl hazards a glance up. She's shaking, she's sobbing, she knows she's not making it out of this alive, but she at least wants the small justice of knowing what her murderer looked like. Dipper can appreciate the sentiment, but they both could've dealt without the image rattling in their heads.

 

The beast has the face of a deer, big, fluffy ears and all - but it’s head is stretched over the skull of an alligator's, complete with yellow, razor-edge teeth popping out of its ghastly maw. Crowning its head are a pair of enlarged Pronghorn-esque horns, shiny and obsidian. There’s a massive scar over its left eye, but the eye wasn’t missing, just pearl-white and completely blind.

 

_Must be one hell of story_ , Dipper thinks.

 

The other eye - shaped like that of a bobcat’s - is what gets him. Instead of being demon red, or Bill yellow, or ice blue, it’s warm and green. The brightest, most intense shade of forest green he’s ever seen in his life, in fact.

 

A strand of spit smacks the girl in the cheek, and she screams. _Me too,_ Dipper thinks. 

 

She tries to scramble away, but the beast just shifts its weight, pressing against her legs - specifically, her ankles. _It’s playing,_ Dipper thinks. _It’s playing with its food._

 

Her ankles snap under the pressure, and Dipper feels her pain with her this time; it blazes through her body like lightning that doesn’t ever stop - he’d scream if he had his own set of lungs, but for now, he’s just an extra passenger. 

 

The beast lifts up its right paw, and the girl falls back against the ground, sobbing and crying. Dipper wants to do just about the same.

 

The monster moves lithely, removing its paw from her leg and backing away, opting to circle around her in a strange, waltz-like stalk. Its back paws are the split hooves of a bison, the legs stretched and elongated. _Massive stride,_ Dipper notes. _More like a bound. Jumping capabilities are probably out of this fucking world._

 

The beast isn’t bulging with muscle, either - it’s thin. Wisp thin. Dipper doesn’t know where the power to compound fracture both of this girl’s ankles came from; it's made of bone and thick, fluffy fur that most likely hides most of its wasted body.

 

The beast - which had been curled over its midsection - straightens, and Dipper wants to hurl.

 

Instead of having skin, the monster’s rib cage is completely open to the world, but there are absolutely no organs in its chest cavity. Its spinal cord - which was overly-long - wound down, meeting the beast’s pelvis where bison fur sprung up and covered the top half of its back legs. There was nothing. A gaping, black void - if Dipper focused, he might have realized that the darkness was just taut, dark skin, pulled tight under its bones like a circus tent.

 

Now that he noticed, it seemed its entire spinal cord was left in the open, balancing against its back instead of inside it.

 

The girl is howling, now, as the monster prowls around her. Dipper doesn't blame her. Seeing bone jut through the surface of skin is never easy; twice in the same night? Sickening.

 

It prowls in such a fashion that its eye never leaves her face, side-stepping with a strange, fluid grace.

 

It’s disorienting, it’s horrifying, and Dipper wishes the girl would look away so he could un-see it. So he never, ever has to look upon whatever the fuck this is again. But she won’t.

 

Dipper notices another odd feature. Between its vertebrae there were small spines shaped like different kinds of shark teeth popping out and snapping to and fro with its movement. It’s horrifying, somehow. It doesn’t help that the shoulders are shaped like a humans, that the arms - thin, of course - move like a person’s. It gives the vibe of human experimentation gone wrong.

 

“Just do it!” the girl screams. Dipper’s blood runs cold - he knows that voice.

 

It’s Melanie, Melanie Wright, the asshole who tortures his sister for fun. Dipper can’t stop the stab of vindictive glee that bursts in his chest. He wonders if that makes him a bad person.

 

He doesn’t have a lot of time to think on it, though; the monster complies, leaping forward and cracking Melanie’s pelvis with the force of the jump, and then it leaps back, continuing its prowling dance. Like it hadn't just split her pelvis like a damn saltine cracker in ten seconds flat. The crack, loud and final, wreathes about Dipper's mind as if it were a plague.

 

_Holy shit,_ Dipper thinks. _Is it playing?_

 

Melanie is screeching, back arching against the ground. Dipper feels his glee from earlier falter, but not much - he’s no longer sympathizing with her. He just wants her to die already. Being an uninvited passenger in her body is incredibly painful, even diluted through the dream.

 

The monster bounds to her side, suddenly, jolting them both. It looks at her, big green eye narrowing. Calculating. The thing is figuring her out, mapping the complexities of her anatomy with the barest glance of a single eye. The realization dawns over Dipper like a bucket of cold water; it's not playing. It's finding out its place in the food chain. It's waiting for Melanie to grow spikes or spit posion - it doesn't know that people are utterly defenseless without weapons. This monster isn't a sadistic maniac; it's an animal. It's hunting.

 

The beast hisses, like an alligator. In a flash, its massive paw comes swinging down and smacks Melanie's broken pelvis with enough force to break it again. To that thing, it's probably just batting at her weaknesses; it's overestimating how strong she is. It doesn't even know it's breaking bones. It could be playing, for all Dipper knows.

 

Melanie's scream is horrifying.

 

_Oh, God,_ Dipper thinks. _Just fucking kill her._

 

The monster seems to take orders well, because it comes to her knees and balances on them with its front paws, pressing, pressing, _pressing - snap._ The combination of the monster’s paws wrapped around her knees and the impossible pressure being applied downward cracks something in her knee, but Melanie’s all out of vocal cords to howl with.

 

The monster inches forward, balancing it’s paws on her thighs. And then it pops up, suddenly, hitting her legs when it comes down - like CPR, but in the wrong area with way too much force being applied. Then it does it again. And again.

 

It does it until it can feel her femurs cracking. Dipper feels sick. Even dimmed, the pain is incredible - he can’t imagine what it must be like to feel it firsthand.

 

Then it slips forward. It’s so close that they can both feel it’s hot breath, disgusting and vile, like something that’s been asleep a very, very long time. 

 

It rears back on its hindlegs, raising its head like a king. At its full height, it’s several feet taller than Dipper is - and Dipper’s pretty damn tall, honestly.

 

The monster leans down, parts its mouth, and roars.

 

The beast had been considerably quiet, preferring to listen to its victim’s cries. But now, its bellow is ear-splitting and can be heard over the entire city, rising and dropping in pitch horrendously. Spit flies against Melanie’s face. Whatever noise it had released earlier, this was ten times as bad; Dipper even feels a hot trickle of blood leaking from Melanie’s ear. For something that lacked the space for proper lungs, it could produce a truly concussive sound.

 

Dipper’s head swims. He can’t even tell the monster has stopped bellowing until its claws dig into Melanie’s sides and _tear_ , turning her flesh into four long fillets of human meat. Dipper mentally gags.

 

When Melanie’s hurriedly blackening vision looks up at the Beast, strings of flesh and spit are swinging from its maw. It looks right, in a way, like this is how the creature belongs.

 

The monster snaps open its jaw, and slams it shut against Melanie’s head.

 

Dipper wakes up.

 

There’s something on top of him - _oh God, oh God, no_ \- so he shoves it off. Dipper stumbles up, nearly crashing into the coffee table, and staggers towards the bathroom, where he promptly heaves into the toilet.

 

After a couple minutes, someone comes in after him, bare feet slapping against the tiles hard. He flinches.

 

“It’s just me,” Mabel murmurs.

 

Dipper lets out a breath. Oh, shit. “Sorry,” he says. His voice comes out hoarse and wet. “I kinda… pushed you off the couch.”

 

“It’s okay,” Mabel says.

 

Dipper stands up, shaky. There’s a dull ache pounding against his legs, his skull feels like it’s splitting in two, and there’s sharp needle-pricks poking his sides; he can’t quite remember why. He must have been sleeping weird.

 

Mabel turns on the light, and Dipper winces. She immediately flicks the switch back down. “Migraine?”

 

Dipper shrugs. His mouth feels like cotton, and he doesn’t trust it to speak.

 

Mabel wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed, dweebsters.”

 

Dipper nods, numbly. He can’t remember much of his dreams, usually, just bits and pieces; but he remembers Melanie Wright’s scream, deafening, and a bright green eye, blinding.

 

It’s disorienting.

 

Mabel grabs his arm and wraps it around her neck while he looks on, dumbly. She presses her shoulder against his and helps him hobble to the stairs, pins and needles and knives shooting up his legs and settling in his hips.

 

“I think my knee caught your hip when you woke up,” Mabel says. “Must’ve hit you pretty hard.”

 

Dipper swallows, opens his mouth to speak and apologize, but then snaps it shut when the words fly out of his head.

 

Mabel notices and giggles. “Dorkus,” she says.

 

Dipper lets out a dry chuckle with her. He feels emptied out like an old, creaky house, with open windows to let in frigid drafts and holes in the floorboards that trip up the casual visitor. He feels haunted.

 

Ascending the stairs pops the kinks in Dipper’s bones out, and he’s moving on his own by the time they reach the top. Mabel bids him goodnight, Dipper returns to the favor, and he slips into his room quieter than a mouse.

 

Just inside of the door, he slumps. If he listens, he can hear Mabel bustling about in her room, preparing to go back to sleep. He can hear his father’s deep, drunken snores from the room down the hall. He can hear his own raspy breathing, labored, like he’d been running.

 

He’s tired. He’s never slept well, but since his mother’s death, he’s been living on copious amounts of caffeine. It’s not healthy, he knows, but he can’t really help it. He should be sleeping, right now. He should _want_ to sleep like any other teenager would.

 

Dipper flicks on his bedside lamp. The soft, orange glow is impossible to see with his door shut.

 

It illuminates his cork board - covered in print-outs, rubber bands, and notes. In the center is a photo of his mother; smiling, grinning. Lively.

 

Dipper flops into his desk chair, staring at the picture. Her skin is tan and dark, her hair is shoulder-length and dark brown, like chocolate. Her eyes are warm and gold, the corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile. Her lips are drawn tight over pearly white teeth. Her cheeks are full and tinted with a rosy blush.

 

She’s beautiful. There’s a bend in her nose where she broke it, the tendons in her hand popped out too much, and one of her front teeth was crooked, but she was beautiful.

 

He remembers her hands. She’d set them on his head when he was little, her lithe, worked fingers carding through his hair. When he got to be her height, she’d settle them on the back of his neck, twisting the curls at the nape of his neck. When he was finally, finally taller than she was, her hand would settle at the small of his back, rubbing circles into his skin.

 

Dipper can feel the ghost of her touch, of her hugs, her soft voice that got screechy when she was angry, he can still sense her thin but strong form in the hallways of the house.

 

He liked it when Grunkle Stan had been here. His personality and his broad shoulders swallowed up the emptiness his mother had left in their house. Dipper found himself missing him, missing his cackles and the way he complained about his aging bones.

 

Grunkle Stan had fondly spoken of Wendy and Soos. It had hurt to hear, but he couldn’t stop listening; he found himself wondering how they were, beyond what words could convey. He wondered how they dressed, how they spoke, the little mannerisms of theirs that had evolved and changed since he’d seen them so long ago. He wanted to laugh with them and do dumb, stupid things and be an actual friend to them. It was a powerful craving.

 

Dipper sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. He’s moping and he knows it. It’s something he’s been doing a lot lately, sitting and staring and not really doing much.

 

It’s been a week and a day, and he’s so exhausted he doesn’t even think he could sleep. His heart’s tired of pushing and his head’s tired of thinking. Breathing takes more effort than he has left in him.

 

He rests his head against the lukewarm wood and focuses on breathing. It should be easy, what with millions of years of instinct behind it. It just gets harder the more he tries.

 

He looks back at the cork board - the ancient runes scrawled on yellowing sheets of paper that frame his mother’s picture. It feels like betrayal. He shouldn’t be doing this. It’s too late for him - he knows he owes Bill Cipher anything he wants, he knows Bill can come and take it whenever, can do whatever, he knows. He’s dreamed of it. He’s always looking over his shoulder, he’s always mapping emergency exits in every room he walks into. He's damned no matter what corner of the world he runs to. He's learned to live with it. He knows his time is sooner rather than later.

 

But when he dies, Mabel’s in the crossfire. He can’t leave animosity behind him. He can’t give people reason to want revenge over him. He can't give the things in the dark something to track, he can't leave a trail of thorns behind him because Mabel has to walk through it. 

 

That means he can’t get involved in the supernatural anymore. He'll leave a scent to follow and Mabel would have to deal with it. There's a time coming where he won't be able to protect Mabel, a bad moon rising just around the river's bend; and he has to be ready for it.

 

But his mother’s dead. If it’s Bill’s fault, it’s in violation of their deal. He could get justice. He could void his deal - he could be there for Mabel past the river's bend.

 

Dipper wrings his hands and glances at the clock; four thirty-four.

 

He cracks open his laptop and begins to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, a huge thanks to notadashi yet again for her incredible editing skills! Follow her on tumblr and check out her AO3, because, trust me, it's worth it. And a massive amount of gratitude goes to the-last-standing on tumblr for her incredible illustration of this story, which you can find here: http://jerseydevious.tumblr.com/tagged/tbmr 
> 
> (That also happens to be the tag with which I post updates, concepts, spoilers and asks on, should any of those things decide to surface!)
> 
> Ahh, yes, the dreaded short chapter. There's always gotta be one, y'know? Anyway, this chapter introduces Mr. Player #2, as I like to call him. Keep everything here in mind as we continue on! Unfortunately, the free time I have is dwindling rapidly as I approach the end of my vacation, so updates should be around weekly. If I don't post the new chapter within the week, kick me in the ass. Hope y'all enjoyed!


	5. UXQ UXQ UXQ ZLWK WKH UDLOURDG ZKHQ WKHLU EDFNV DUH WXUQHG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied violence.
> 
> I'm so sorry about the delays, guys! My laptop is officially not working, unfortunately, and the iPad I'm working from isn't mine. Updates may be sketchy.

“I’m gonna tell him tonight,” Mabel says, sweeping mascara over her eyelashes. “I’ll tell him about Mom. It’s gonna be okay. He’ll tell me what to do.”

 

Mabel leans back, inspecting her work. Not her best mascara job ever, but judging by how exhausted she is, it’ll do. 

 

She hadn't really slept until midnight last night, and on top of that, Dipper had woken her up at four in the morning. She didn't mind too much; his nightmares were horrible, to be honest, and she'd gotten used to his late-night terrors over the years.

 

“Who are you talking to?” Dipper shouts, from the bathroom he shares with their father. There were two bathrooms in the Pines home - one for girls, one for guys. They really only used separate rooms because Mabel took long showers, though. (So did Mom, but that doesn't matter anymore, did it?)

 

“No one!” Mabel shouts, quickly. “Just, um, talking to myself! Getting ready for the day, right?”

 

She sticks her head out of the door, hair swinging below her, at the same time Dipper does. He’s making that super-serious-intense-frowny-face, the one he uses when people say things he finds unsettling. 

 

It’d be kind of intimidating if his toothbrush wasn’t sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Coupled with his bedhead, the red lines imprinted on his face, and his morning scruff, it’s laughter-worthy.

 

“Mmf - you thure?” he gurgles around the toothbrush.

 

Mabel giggles. “You are _sooooo_ lucky that I don’t have my phone right now.”

 

Dipper’s eyes narrow and his brows raise, giving him an even more comical look. “I happen to have the 'rugged' look going for me, thank you.” He puts air quotes around the word 'rugged,' making Mabel chortle.

 

“You have _no_ look going for you, trust me. I am a professional,” Mabel says.

 

“Oh, _oh?_ Oh, really? You know what, I think I just won’t shave today -”

 

“No!” Mabel squeals. “You know I hate that!”

 

Dipper grins. “Yeah, not feelin’ it.”

 

“Dipper!” Mabel whines. “I won’t hug you for the entire day. The whole day. No hugs. Not even touching you. You know I hate the feel of scruff!”

 

“Eh, I’ll just hug you first,” Dipper says, and ducks back into his bathroom.

 

“No!” Mabel begs. “Please! It rubs against my face when I hug you and it’s like - it’s like feeling the claws of _Satan_. Come on, Dip!”

 

“I can’t hear you!” Dipper calls.

 

“Ass!” Mabel retorts.

 

“Language!” their dad yells from his room.

 

Mabel jumps, and then leans back out of the doorway. Dipper was facing her, a similar ‘oh shit’ expression on his face. They both break out into a fit of giggles.

 

“We’re gonna be late,” Dipper says, clicking on an iPhone to check the time. He immediately winces from the brightness - while he kept his devices on the lowest possible brightness, Mabel kept hers on the highest, preferring to annihilate her enemies with neon-colored backgrounds and a glaring cesspool of light.

 

“Hey!” Mabel shrieks. “That’s my phone!”

 

Dipper sticks his tongue out at her. “Come and get it, then.”

 

Mabel turns around to glance at the clock on her counter - seven forty-eight. She’s still in her Ice Age pajamas. If she tackles Dipper now, she won't have time to lace her amazingly cute booties.

 

She sighs. Some sacrifices have to be made.

 

“After I finish getting ready,” she says, wagging a finger at him, “You’re so getting it.”

 

“You’re gonna beat me with pillows anyway,” Dipper says.

 

“More like with my fists,” she strikes a Wonder Woman pose, rolling her fists like an old-fashioned boxer. “I’m gonna, like. Screw your face up.”

 

“Children,” their dad moans.

 

They both shot bolt upright. “Sorry,” Dipper says, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Mabel snatches a stray pillow outside of her door - really, they needed to clean the house soon - and slaps him with it. “I win!” 

 

Dipper topples into the wall with a thud. “Ow!”

 

Mabel giggles. “Dorkasaurus.”

 

“That’s it!” Dipper launches forward and tackles her, and they crash to the floor with a bang. She knees him in the gut and he pins her legs with his knees, planting a forearm over her chest so that she's too occupied with breathing to knock him off.

 

“Don’t you - ahhh!” Mabel shrieks and bucks as Dipper’s hands brush the crook of her neck.

 

Their father slaps the wall. “It’d be easier if we didn’t have to do this every day!”   
Mabel and Dipper stop. “Sorry, Dad,” they chime.

 

“Now get ready!” he shouts.

 

Dipper scrambles up and offers his hand to Mabel, who takes it gratefully. His hands are warm, she notes. They always are. She wonders if it's a Dipper Thing, like all Dippers are factory programmed to have warm hands and obsessive tendencies.

 

“Right,” Dipper says, brushing dust off of his clothes. “You ready?”

 

Mabel glances down to her pajamas with a raised eyebrow. _Of course, Dipper, I'm going to wear my Ice Age pajamas with woolly mammoths on the butt. Yes, obviously,_ she thinks.

 

Dipper blushes. “Don’t judge me.”

 

“Doctor Dweeb-a-lot,” Mabel teases.

 

“Those never get any more gratifying,” Dipper mutters.

 

"I'm out." Mabel scrambles into her room, dancing through the clutter to try and find the clothes she'd set out last night.

 

“Yeah, put some clothes on,” Dipper says. “So indecent. Gosh.”

 

“You only wear boxers to bed!” Mabel calls, slipping on a shirt without really looking at it. She'd given up finding her planned outfit. It's probably under her fabric store, anyway. “Only boxers, Dipper! I have been traumatized!”

 

“I find that insensitive!"

 

Mabel wriggles into her jeans and slips on her boots, fingers flying with the laces. “Get the car started!”

 

“Yay, I’m driving today,” Dipper says, thundering down the stairs. “No near death experiences!”

 

“I’m not that bad!”

 

“Three tickets, Mabel!”

 

Mabel ignores his last comment and springs into the bathroom, snatching her perfume and spritzing herself with it a couple times. She glances into the mirror for a final check, and -

 

stumbles against the door, breathing hard and fast, so fast her lungs feel like they're going to pop like little tiny balloons.

 

“M-mom,” she stammers.

 

“Hi,” Marcella replies.

 

The door swings shut, completely of its own accord. Mabel flinches.

 

“Don’t want anyone listening in,” Marcella says. It's almost like she's staring at her mother again; if Mabel could ignore the slight glow, the floating, the sweep of her shoulder-length hair as if they were underwater. But she can't. That's the problem, isn't it? The crux of her issue.

 

She latches on to something else - _anything_ else.

 

“What are you doing here?” Mabel breathes. “Ghosts - ghosts haunt a single area. This is impossible."

 

“I died here, remember?” 

 

Mabel’s breath stalls. Dipper had never told her which bathroom her mother had... _died_ in.

 

He’d screamed at her to call the police, and she’d complied, because Dipper would only shout that when he was serious - would only shout _like_ that if it was serious. He’d come down a couple minutes later, soaked to the bone with blood and he was shaking, he was crying. It looked like someone had replaced his bones with gelatin. 

 

It had looked like he'd just murdered someone on accident.

 

But he'd never told her which bathroom she'd killed herself in. Mabel has to fight the sudden, vicious anger that consumes her - didn't she have the right to know where her mother had - 

 

Marcella’s gaze morphs into one of pity. “Honey, I’m -”

 

“Please, please, Mom - I need you to move on,” Mabel whispers. "I need you to leave me alone."

 

“I can’t, you -”

 

“Stop,” Mabel says. “Just -”

 

“Meet me at the cemetery,” Marcella snaps, suddenly. Mabel jumps; the power in her voice is palpable. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

 

Her image dissipates, like Mabel’s good mood.

 

Mabel holds a hand to her mouth and presses it against her teeth, feeling her lips curl around the bone. Think later. Get to school now.

 

She ducks into the car, breathing hard - but not from rushing.

 

Dipper shoots her a wry grin - it looks out of place, from her perspective. She forgets that Dipper doesn’t know everything, sometimes; he’s always so concerned about her that he makes it a point to investigate every threat to her, like she’s a precious, priceless crowning jewel.

 

He knows so much about her. He's always been there through the thick of things; the fact that he doesn't know anything, not this time, leaves her stumbling blind. There's an empty space beside her with his name on it, but he doesn't know that.

 

“Whew,” she huffs, letting her emotions fly away with her breath. She’ll handle everything later. Right now, she just wants to listen to shitty pop music; and Dipper’s always happy to indulge her on that front. 

 

Dipper pulls out of the drive, and they're off.

 

They’re halfway down the road when _it_ comes on. There's a long story behind this particular song, one filled with bad singing and getting stuck in elevators; it's one of the multitude of things that they share solely between themselves.

 

It's a sweet memory, but she just wished Dipper didn't insist on singing it at the highest possible volume every time he heard it.

 

Dipper looks at her, eyes wide. She glares back. “Don’t you frickin’ do it, bromeo.”

 

Dipper’s face splits into a smile. “I have to. I’m required. It’s the law.”

 

Mabel prepares to protest -

 

_“IT’S MORE THAN A FEELING -”_

 

Mabel covers her ears, trying to blot out her brother’s incoherent screeching. “You’re butchering Boston!”

 

Dipper winks at her and continues to “sing.”

 

_That’s good old Dipper,_ Mabel thinks. _Always ready to be the most annoying, lovable, dorkiest brother ever._

-

School goes about as well as Dipper expected. Mabel can’t say she expected things to be bad - she’s a proud optimist. Dipper’s the pessimist of the two of them. Saying school went how Dipper expected it is like saying a homicidal alien dinosaur with lazer guns committed the genocide of the tri-state area; it's a worst case scenario. 

 

People stare at her. They whisper. Apparently, Jenny Wilders - whose mother ran the towing service - had spilled about how her car had been vandalized. People loudly gave their unwanted opinions, obnoxiously smacking their lips together after every word, creating a cacophony of bitter snideness that licks over her open wounds like a fire.

 

It’s times like these that she’s incredibly glad that Dipper comes with a personal attack dog feature. 

 

He’s always looming in front of her, parting the crowd with the intensity of his glare alone. His left arm is always near her, always around her shoulders, always very protective and loving. Sometimes, Mabel hates it and wishes Dipper didn’t care about her so much. Right now, she’s taking advantage of it.

 

He shoots the whispers down with a glance, he shoves into the people that stare, he squares his shoulders when people try to say, “hey, watch it!” He snaps at people who make it through the sentence, using as little words as possible but pumping enough acid into them to melt skin. He’s a personal spitfire, bile and hate, all for her. 

 

It’s not that Mabel can’t defend herself, of course. She can - she’s always been able to. She can take it.

 

It’s just that Dipper won’t let her, because he always sweeps in like an unholy fire, bowling over all adversaries with his sheer force of will. It used to annoy her; she'd argue with him frequently about it, and Dipper would give her this Dipper-y shrug that frustrated her. 

 

It took her a while to understand that it's just the way he shows his love for people; to vehemently protect them with everything he has. Mabel has since gained a grudging appreciation for Attack-Dog Dipper.

 

But he freezes when they cross paths with Melanie Wright before fourth block - Dipper had insisted on walking her there, like a dumb, dorky brother would - and Mabel immediately knows that there's going to be trouble.

 

Curiously, Dipper's the first one to hesitate. He halts like a startled horse, backing up before moving forward, shoulders tensing. Mabel wishes she could see the myriad of emotions that most likely crossed his face.

 

Melanie Wright is nothing if not an opportunist, and she takes Dipper’s hesitation as an opening. “The witch made it in.”

 

The two cronies behind her shake their heads, back away. It’s Marco and Giani - Mabel, with a burst of happiness, thinks that they must have learned better. The two of them scurry into the Cosmetics classroom as rats would to a meal.

 

Dipper’s in action before she is, moving forward and tensing up like a cat about to pounce. She snatches his wrist and hisses, “Stop,” through her teeth. 

 

_Cool it,_ Rocket, Mabel thinks.

 

Melanie has the decency - or self-preservation - to look wary. But it's for naught, as she presses on. “So you made your brother into your personal bitch, huh?”

 

Melanie, for a minute, looks shocked that she said it. Horrified, even. But then her face shutters closed, like a program fading to black. Mabel feels her curiosity - and her sympathy - brew.

 

Dipper growls. Actually growls, as if he were a dog prepared to attack, some animal in the dark waiting to snap its jaws shut over the skull of its prey. He pulls against her hand, saying, “Oh, fuck you, if you think I’m -”

 

“Dipper!” Mabel snaps. “Chill pill, broski.”

 

Dipper glares at her. _Let me waste her._

 

Mabel shakes her head. _That’s ridiculous._

 

Melanie stares at Mabel. “You did, didn’t you? Turned your brother into your bitch. Your little guardian. That’s pathetic. That's low, even for you.”

 

Dipper wrenches his wrist out of her hand, rearing forward and pulling his arm back to -

 

Mabel slams into his shoulder, throwing him off course. Being around Dipper’s height in this scenario is very useful, actually - if she were any smaller, Mabel's sure he would've batted her away.

 

Once he regains his balance, Mabel grabs him by the shirt. “You’re going to get expelled.”

 

If the look Dipper levels at her is mutinous, it turns singularly vicious when he looks a Melanie. She looks rightly terrified. From past experience, Mabel knows that Dipper can really, really beat the shit out of someone if Mabel’s involved, muscles notwithstanding. He’s got the temper to fuck people up. 

 

“Freak,” Melanie spits, and then she’s sauntering away from the Cosmetics room, red hair swinging as she all but bolts down the hall. _Good move,_ Mabel thinks.

 

For a second, Dipper coils, ready to follow her. Grab her hair, maybe, and use it to knock her around a little. Dipper's temper is quite the thing to behold, in all honesty; she can barely remember the days when he was twelve and generally mild-mannered.

 

Dipper snorts, wheeling around like he was still looking for a fight. Mabel slaps his arm.

 

He jumps, grabbing his shoulder like it had actually hurt. “What was that for?”

 

“What was that for? _What was that for?_ ” Mabel imitates. “What the hell was that, Dip?”

 

Dipper’s eyebrows furrow. “That?” he gestures vaguely to the area where Melanie had been standing.

 

Mabel throws out her arm. “Yes, that!”

 

Dipper’s lip curls. “It was nothing. Literally, nothing. Her ass remains unkicked.”

 

She pokes his chest. “And it better stay that way! You can’t threaten everyone, Dippy-dabble-doo.”

 

“Dippy-dabble-doo?” Dipper’s nose scrunches. “The fuck does that even mean?”

 

“You’re missing the point!” Mabel groans. “Look, Dipper, I appreciate the overprotective shtick -”

 

“I am _not_ overprotective -”

 

“You just threatened to kick a defenseless girl’s tooshie for me!” Mabel flails her arms, incredulous.

 

Dipper shakes his head. “That’s normal.”

 

Mabel facepalms. “No, no, Sweet n’ Sour, it’s not.”

 

“Do your nicknames get better?”

 

“They get _helluva_ good, Dip,” Mabel says. “And, just? Lay off with the, I’ll-break-into-your-room-and-murder-you-with-a-tie-game. Tone it down.”

 

Dipper blinks. “Okay, firstly, that’s actually a good pun, so kudos to you. And, secondly, I do not say that.”

 

“You look psychopathic enough to!” Mabel exclaims. “The scruff doesn’t help! It makes it look like you've been too busy skinning small children to shave!"

 

Dipper makes a face, but his stomach takes it as a cue to voice its need for food. Mabel rolls her eyes.

 

“Please?” Mabel begs. “For me? Try to be more civil? And, jeeze, get some lunch while you're at it."

 

Dipper sighs, looking towards the ceiling. “To a degree, fine.” 

 

“Is that all I’m gonna get?” 

 

“Yes,” Dipper replies.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Mabel shrieks, throwing her arms around his neck in a flurry. The two of them stumble into the wall, Dipper cracking his head on the cement.

 

“Gah!” he moans. “What is with the throwing me into hard objects?”

 

Mabel waves her hand. “You’ll be fine. Now get! You’re already late for class!”

 

“Fine, fine,” Dipper mutters.

 

Mabel hurries into the Cosmetics room as the bell rings.

 

The class passes pleasantly, without Melanie there to darken the doorstep. Mabel, in the back of her mind, wonders where she got off to.

 

-

 

The night is bleak. It's the kind of darkness that the old songs bespeak; like the Devil's spread his wings and shadow has fallen upon the ground. Everything is restless, on the cusp of a great decision that nobody really knows anything about.

 

The air is thin and slips through lungs and leaves too easy, too quickly, as if the air particles themselves were running from something.

 

Mabel can't help but think that this is a very bad idea. Emphasis on bad. It's a no-good, downtrodden rotten idea, but she can't seem to get that through her own thick skull.

 

There's something about family that'll do that to a person.

 

Marcella's already waiting, in all her deathly, unnatural glory. She has the stance that tells Mabel that she would be pacing if ghosts could abide by the laws of gravity.

 

"Hello," she greets.

 

"This is it," Mabel says. "Either you convince me here, or you don't convince me at all. I'm leaving this shit behind."

 

"Language," Marcella murmurs.

 

"Whatever," Mabel huffs.

 

"A seat, perhaps?" Marcella asks, flicking one delicate hand - her mother's hands were never delicate - to the rickety bench to Mabel's left, shadowed by a dead willow tree.

 

The offer is an order if she'd ever heard one. Mabel was never one to disobey her mother, so she does as she's told.

 

Marcella turns to face her, everything about her being swirling like a big princess gown as she did so. "How was your day?"

 

Mabel's caught unprepared for the question. It's something so painfully normal, so painfully Mom, that she hadn't dared to entertain an answer.

 

"Good," Mabel says. "Cosmetics especially. We had brownies in lunch."

 

Marcella smiles warmly, but with a generous touch of wistfulness. "And Dipper?"

 

Mabel shrugs. "I can't answer that, silly. I'm not Dipper."

 

Marcella nods, swallowing. It's far too human of thing to do. She's a ghost, after all.

 

Mabel suspects her mother was going out of her way to seem natural, and in the process just dug her grave even deeper.

 

She wants to say something nice, say something she would've back in October, or September, or July, or five years ago. Instead, she blurts, "What are you going to do?"

 

"I thought," Marcella says, twiddling her thumbs, "that we could sit. And talk. And, maybe, listen."

 

It's a heavy statement, perfectly worded - just what Mom would say. 

 

"Okay," Mabel says. She's surprised to find that she is okay with it. She honestly doesn't mind having a completely normal, perfectly natural conversation with her mother's ghost. "So, ah. What's the afterlife like?"

 

_That's a really, really dumb question,_ Mabel thinks.

 

Marcella gives her a wan smile. "Strange. I see the world like - oh, hang it all, how to explain... Hm. If existence is a parade, then everything alive -" she gestures to Mabel, "-is watching from the sidelines. I'm in the helicopter that's reporting it to the news stations. If there's a bump, a crash, something in the way, I can see it. But you can't."

 

Mabel nods, prompting her mother to continue.

 

"It's a perception change, really," Marcella explains. "Seeing through a new lens_ - it changes the things you think you know. Honey, I know I'm your mother, and you want to believe I'm always in control, that I always know what I'm doing. But... I don't. I'm flying blind, just like you."

 

Mabel offers her a watery smile - a peaceoffering. "Well, flying blind together is the best way to fly blind."

 

Marcella gives a quick, terse laugh. "Perhaps, sweetflower. It's a way to stay together, isn't it?"

 

"... Mom, you know - you know me and Dipper got into the supernatural biz a lot. As kids, I mean -"

 

"I know perfectly well," Marcella interjects. "And I'll need your previous experience."

 

"Don't you think this is... dangerous?" Mabel asks, hopefully.

 

"Yes," Marcella says. "A necessary evil."

 

Mabel sighs. The two of them fall into a meaningful silence, each contemplative. Mabel can't shake the feeling that everything is waiting on one something, even Marcella. It makes her feel distinctly out of place, like that one rock that sticks up in a river, the water rushing and spilling about it.

 

She takes the oppurtunity to think. 

 

Her mother would not lie to her. Her mother would not betray her, her mother would not abuse her trust, her mother would not do something unjustly; if Marcella Pines was anything, it was honorable. Marcella upheld certain values that made her personality swell, like the puffed chest of a lion. She was hardworking, she was loyal, she was prideful and venerable.

 

They were all traits that had made her mother seem larger than life, stronger than an ox, with more endurance than a wolf. Mabel's mother, though she lived a domestic life, had the air of a heroine. She always handled hurdles with the idea that she'd already faced the worst.

 

Mabel had viewed her mom with something like hero-worship. Where her father was simple, and worked with computers, her mother had been a criminal investigator. Her mother was always this golden statue of goodness and power.

 

Whether she liked it or not, defying the laws of life and death to save people was very, very Marcella Pines. It was a special breed of tenacity that only Marcella could possess.

 

At the same time, Mabel wanted to believe that her mother would put her daughter's safety before everyone else's. That, maybe, she would prove to be as fiercely protective over Mabel's wellfare as Dipper was and leave it at this. Whatever this is.

 

"Ah," Marcella says, suddenly. 

 

Mabel jumps. "What?"

 

"This is where we begin to listen."

 

And, somewhere off in the distance, a girl began to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thank you to the-last-standing and perfectperfectscientist - formerly notadashi - on tumblr! 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed that. Leave all questions, comments, and concerns either below or at jerseydevious on tumblr!


	6. BRX'UH DOO VKHHS LQ D SHQ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XOB VLR OBXAV CLO JB QL IBQ QEB TLIC FK XKA ZILPB QEB ALLO?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! My life is all 83 levels of crazy right now, so it's taken FOREVER to get this chapter out, forgive me. And, I know you guys were expecting a Dipper chapter, but.... for a good portion of the beginning, Mabel's going to be the star. And it's not because Dipper's not doing anything, it's just not relevant yet.

Mabel stumbles through the front door around four in the morning, exhausted and cold. Her fingers are shaking, but she knows it’s fruitless to try and stop them.

 

She yawns loudly as she strips off her jacket and throws the keys to the red pickup in the bowl; her eyes, watery from yawning, scan the room -

 

She jumps about seventeen feet in the air. “Dipper! You scared the life out of me!”

 

Dipper, crouched over what looks like a walkie-talkie, flinches out of his reverie. “Mabel! What are you…” Dipper breaks off and yawns himself. “What are you doing? It’s, like, three in the morning.”

 

“I needed some time,” she says. The words are past her lips before she can think about what they mean; lying to Dipper is crossing a line neither of them have crossed since they were twelve, back in Gravity Falls.

 

 _I should tell him now,_ Mabel thinks. _He deserves to know. I need to stop lying to him._

 

Through the moonlight filtering through the windows, Mabel can see the thick shadows beneath Dipper’s eyes, the gauntness in his cheeks. His shoulders are hunched over the table, arms clinging around his middle, stuck in that contemplative pose Grunkle Stan used to take when his thoughts drifted to not-so-nice corners of his mind.

 

“Oh,” he says, a shade quieter than normal. Just a hair. Just a tiny bit less confident in his words than he was a minute ago.

 

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him. She can imagine how that would go: _hey, our deceased mother who committed suicide came back as a ghost to try and teach me blood magic because there’s something out there that shrieks like the Devil and is killing people, how ya feelin’ now, bro-bro?_

 

And then Dipper would respond in the way Dippers responded to things, all obsessive tendencies and late nights spent trying to take on something a lot stronger than he is. She gets a vivid image of her brother with his hands ground in dirt, blood running from his nose and his eyes are bent in hate. His left knee is shattered, and he won't ever walk the same way again, and his arm is broken and there's a massive laceration forever scarring his chest, but he's furious, and the demon cackling above him is about to know just how furious he can be.

 

Her fingers clench.

 

“What are you doing up, Dipster?” she asks, taking a seat beside him at the table. She hides her hands beneath it so he won’t see the way they quake.

 

Dipper unwinds an arm from his lap, and - shakily, she notices - reaches for a walkie-talkie sitting on the table. He flicks it on.

 

Several static-ky voices jump out at her, clamoring for her attention. “Woah,” Mabel says. “What is all that?”

 

“It’s a police scanner,” Dipper says. “Someone got mauled. Really, really badly.”

 

Mabel’s breath hitches. Now, _now_ would be the perfect time to spill everything, now would be the time to stop lying. But she can’t look Dipper in the eyes, so she bites her lip to keep her mouth shut.

 

Dipper interprets the tension in her expression incorrectly, assumes it's because of the mauling, and continues, “It was Melanie Wright.”

 

Mabel’s eyes snap to his face. She hadn’t known that part - she'd just listened to the agonized howls of someone being batted around by a tiger. “What?”

 

“They identified her an hour ago,” Dipper says. 

 

Mabel runs a hand through her tangled, messy hair. “Wow.”

 

They’re silent. It’s awkward, because they usually have no problems talking about dark stuff with each other; but that's about what goes on in their heads, usually. An outright murder hits too close to Gravity Falls for comfort, and they've never even tried to talk about how they feel about _that_ one.

 

“Y’know, uh, Mabel,” Dipper says, throat scratchy. She’s momentarily taken by how deep his voice can get; when she thinks of Dipper, she usually thinks of him as he was when he was twelve, when she nearly lost him. She can’t seem to forget the image of it. “Just in case this isn’t a one-off murder, you should… not. Uh, stay out this late, for, a little bit. Just to be safe.”

 

Mabel blinks. Something inside her - the independent teenager corner of her brain, probably - bristles at the idea of being told what to do, especially by her own twin, who has a bad habit of giving advice he doesn’t take himself. Maybe, at one time, she would’ve gotten pissed at him for it. 

 

But Dipper’s working his throat, and the muscles in his jaw are twitching, and she’d recognize those wide cow eyes anywhere, and his voice was quavering; he was scared. And it made sense, especially coming from Dipper, who had a habit of working himself into all sorts of tizzies over all sorts of things.

 

It also made sense coming from a teenager who’d lost his mom a week and a half ago and wasn’t ready to lose anyone else.

 

So Mabel swallows her bristly pride, and remembers that the best way to deal with Dipper's anxiety is to indulge his idea of safety.

 

“Pfft,” Mabel says. “I can fight off twenty pirates. I’m in a whole new league. You, Dippin’ Dots, need to watch out. You can only fight of a half of a skeleton.” She winks at him to finish the effect with a flourish. "But, if I have to, I'll abide by your curfew, bossy. As long as you do, too!"

 

It works; Dipper’s shoulders slump like she’d untied a threaded knot between them. Mabel Pines is a confirmed Good Sister once more.

 

Dipper chuckles. “I can fight off a whole skeleton, thank you. Maybe even two skeletons. I totally have biceps.”

 

Mabel forms her fingers into a pair of goggles and puts them over her eyes. “Puttin’ on these skepticals, bro.”

 

“Oh, you asshole,” Dipper says, without any real feeling. “You want some hot chocolate?”

 

“It’s only four in the morning,” Mabel shrugs. “Why not?”

 

“It’s always hot chocolate time,” Dipper says, and he stands up, wincing.

 

“Oh, don’t you dare think I didn’t catch your pained facial expression,” Mabel says, eyes narrowing. “What’s up?”

 

She bets it's his knee. His left eyebrow only does that twitching thing when it's his knee. 

 

“My knee,” Dipper mumbles, blushing.

 

Bingo.

 

 _He really needs to stop getting embarrassed about that thing,_ Mabel thinks. _Do I need to file this beneath Address Later or Screw It, It'll Get Better?_

 

“Then I should make the hot chocolate,” Mabel says, standing up. “Go lay down, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Absolutely not.”

 

Mabel raises her fists, and rolls them like she’s about to fight him, which she totally is. And she's going to win. “Fight me, loser. We never had that rematch, we can do it right here, right now.”

 

Dipper puts up his fists in a similar position. “I’ll kick your ass. I’ll do it.”

 

“I’m making the hot chocolate,” Mabel insists, throwing a fake jab at his shoulder.

 

Dipper makes a good show of pretending that it actually hit him, a comically pained expression sliding over his features. “Screw you, I’m going to be a good brother and bring you the hot chocolate.”

 

“But I’m going to bring it to _you.”_

 

“But you’ve been out all night! You’re freezing! As the official doctor, I’m prescribing you a blanket, bed, and your Big Hero 6 pajamas. Go, go,” Dipper says, ushering her to the stairs.

 

“But,” Mabel complains. “Walking up the stairs is going to be hell for you!”

 

“And I have to do it anyway, so I better be doing it for a good reason,” Dipper says. 

 

“Is sleep not a good enough reason?” she asks.

 

“Sleep is for the weak,” he says, and limps into the kitchen. It’s almost painful to watch - actually, scratch that, it _is_ painful to watch. When it does bother him, it’s practically the bane of his existence. 

 

“Dipshit!” she calls.

 

“Thank you!” Dipper responds.

 

Mabel sighs. It’s hard to take care of Dipper, because he forgets he needs caring for, too. The asshole.

 

Dipper leans out of the doorway. “Go upstairs!”

 

“Okay, okay! Bossypants!” she teases, and ascends the stairs. The warmth is slowly leaching back into her bones, but walking up the stairs still proves difficult, being as numb as she is.

 

A picture on the wall catches her attention - the silver frame is gleaming in the moonlight, and she automatically knows which picture it is.

 

It’s the old family photo, the only one they took. They took it the Hanukkah before Gravity Falls happened.

 

She carefully unhooks the photo and holds it, reverently. Her fingers brush the cold glass. 

 

Her mom looks a lot younger than the ghost of her does; there’s less ancient knowledge behind her dark eyes, less lines around her eyes. Her dad looks less like he feels like he’s dead inside, more like a Pines, broad shoulders bent straight and big green eyes wide like he just can’t contain his excitement. They look good, happy, healthy. Her mom is the epitome of the Mariolos and her dad is the epitome of the Pineses, and it's perfect. 

 

Dipper looks shyer, less confident. He’s not leaning towards her like he does these days. Mabel sometimes forgets about how Gravity Falls simultaneously tore them apart and brought them closer together, how they were twins who couldn’t really stand each other and then they were closer than close gets. He looks like he doesn’t quite get what he’s doing there, and he probably doesn't. 

 

Mabel, herself, is grinning at the camera widely, sitting between her parents and pulling them closer together. She looks a lot less like the face Mabel sees in the mirror; younger, happier. Mabel wishes she could go back to then, to being young and carefree, no Gravity Falls and no ghosts haunting her bathroom.

 

No monsters creeping around the city. No Melanie Wrights with their lives ended abruptly. No Melanie Wrights she could have saved.

 

She’s crying before she knows what to do with herself; it’s some byproduct of stress and grief, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of the guilt she’s feeling for keeping Dipper in the dark. 

 

She stumbles into her room, blindly, depositing the picture between her bed and her wall and listening to it bump against the floor with a crack. She doesn’t care if it’s broken - the people in it are broken, anyway, so what’s the point of pretending?

 

At some point, she ends up on her bed, not really thinking besides the constant stream of _why_ going through her head.

 

She’s dimly aware of being folded into a hug, being curled into someone else’s warmth. She wishes - dear God, does she _wish_ \- that it was her mother. If she keeps her eyes shut for long enough, it’ll be her mother when she opens them. In that moment, Mabel wishes she had the opportunity to deal with Bill Cipher just once, and she knows deep in her heart that she would trade anything to go back in time and stay there, forever. She would give _anything._ She wants the person hugging her now to be her mother, her father, Grunkle Stan, all the people she can't have. 

 

But it’s not, and it’s never going to be, so her arms wrap around Dipper’s waist and her hands grab fistfuls of the cotton at his shoulders and she cries her eyes out. They’re loud, ugly sobs, and she’s glad her father’s car wasn’t in the driveway when she got home because he would definitely not approve. 

 

When she’s cried her fill, her left cheek is burning. “Damn it, Dipshit, your stupid scruff hurts. Why do guys get hair on their faces when they go through puberty? It’s dumb. It’s so dumb. Your face is dumb, Dipper.”

 

He does nothing more than chuckle against her shoulder. With her ear pressed against him, though, it sounds like a rumble, like those funky sounds elephants make.

 

“It really is,” she insists. “The epitome of dumb.”

 

“It’s okay, Mabel,” he mumbles, and he sounds so sincere that Mabel nearly starts sobbing all over again.

 

“It’s not, it’s _not._ It’s really not. Why can’t things go back to the way they were?” she whispers.

 

Dipper presses her closer to him, like he’s trying to put her back together with the sheer force of his will. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But they can’t.”

 

“Why not?” Mabel whines. She doesn’t even feel bad for the snot she’s getting on Dipper’s shirt, in all honesty.

 

“‘Cause... time’s a single point. It’s all about the moment we’re in. The past doesn’t exist in the past, it’s brought to the present with us,” Dipper says.

 

“...That was beautiful.”

 

“I quoted it from an article about the science of time,” Dipper replies.

 

“Oh my God, you nerd,” Mabel chuckles. “That’s so nerdy, I just. Oh my God.”

 

Dipper laughs. “It’s true! And you did say it was beautiful.”

 

“It was! I should’ve known you didn’t come up with it yourself.”

 

“I worded it myself!”

 

“You didn’t figure it out yourself!” 

 

Dipper releases her - he hugs like a bear - and looks at her with watery eyes crinkled in a smile. “But! That doesn’t count. Absolutely not. Nope, notta, not even a little bit.”

 

“Yes, it does, it is a very valid point,” Mabel says, poking his chest with a finger. “And you, mister, have the burden of proof. So do your proof-ing and prove it to me, nerd.”

 

“But you were the one who had a problem with my - beautiful, by the way - speech, so you have to prove your point first,” Dipper says.

 

“Oh, you dipshit,” Mabel says. “Absolute dipshit.”

 

Dipper sticks his tongue out at her, and then performs a complicated maneuver where he twists the top half of his body to reach behind him. (Mabel stifles a giggle. He looks like he’s struggling.)

 

It takes him a minute, but Dipper resurfaces with a mug of - now lukewarm - hot chocolate.

 

Mabel blinks. “I thought you made you one, too?”

 

“Uh, I came out to check the scanner and heard you crying, so I finished your hot chocolate so I’d have something to cheer you up with,” Dipper says. 

 

Mabel grins at him. “Aw, and the Grinch’s heart grew.”

 

“Shut up!” he whines.

 

“We can share this one,” she says, and offers Dipper the mug.

 

He shakes his head. “No, it’s yours -”

 

“Just drink it,” Mabel commands, and Dipper takes a sip from the, ‘lol cats r cuter’ mug.

 

They take turns sipping hot chocolate and talking about the dumbest, most banal things until they both fall asleep.

-

_The thing about being tall, Mabel thinks, is that you can’t cuddle with someone else who is also tall on a small bed without paying the price. ___

__

__It’s true. She’s been subtly rubbing her neck through her first two blocks, and Dipper’s been using the edge of his desk to massage a kink out of his forearm. It's the most interesting thing happening since MaKenna stole Mabel’s paper and drew elephants on it, like she always did when she thought Mabel needed a pick-me-up._ _

__

__Earlier, she’d caught sight of the bags beneath Mabel’s eyes back in first block, reached into her bag, and pulled out two canisters of coffee; without comment, Mabel had passed the black coffee to Dipper - who blushed and started thanking MaKenna profusely - and then taken the French Vanilla one._ _

__

__(Mabel’s been best friends with MaKenna since the first day of high school, when Mabel had gushed about her elephant-print shirt and then they’d started gushing about animals. Having known Mabel that long, MaKenna had become well acquainted with Dipper, even though they weren’t textbook-definition ‘friends,’ so she usually gave him a coffee fix, too.)_ _

__

__MaKenna’s just finishing the curly swoop of the last elephant’s tail when the announcement comes on; “As a lot of you have discovered, Miss Melanie Wright suffered a terrible fate last night.”_ _

__

__Murmurs spread throughout the room. Mabel feels her blood turn to ice; she can’t help but think about the look on her mother’s face as she sat, dead silent, and listened to Melanie get ripped apart, without doing anything to stop it._ _

__

__Mabel had screamed, cried, howled, but Marcella had never responded._ _

__

__“A ceremony honoring her memory,” the announcer continued, “Will be held in the auditorium at two thirty.”_ _

__

__Mabel swallows, hard._ _

__

__“May-bae?” MaKenna asks. “You cool?”_ _

__

__“I’m upset,” she says._ _

__

__“About Melanie?” MaKenna says. “Because there’s nothing you could’ve done that could change things.”_ _

__

__If only she knew._ _

__

__“You’re right,” Mabel says. She understands that, yeah, sure, Mabel couldn’t have stopped the thing that tore through Melanie. It’s not Mabel’s fault. But she still regrets not trying harder, because she’s the only living person in the whole wide world who knew what was going to happen, even if her warning came seconds before the act itself._ _

__

__Her eyes find Dipper’s. His seat is directly across the room from hers, which has led to no less than eighty-three Facial Expression Brigades. Right now, he’s giving her a thumbs up._ _

__

__She winks back at him, and turns to the board just as the teacher speaks up._ _

__

__“I have no clue why in the name of all that is good and holy that they would wait this long to make an announcement,” Ms. Redd complains. “But all is well! In the email, it says I am to dismiss you from my class at regular time, and from there you will meander on to the auditorium. So, you’re not missing any work today, suckers!”_ _

__

__The class groans, and the clock starts to tick down to the time of the assembly._ _

__

__It doesn’t take long enough for Mabel to get her bearings, and then the walk down doesn’t take nearly long enough. By the time she sits down, firmly placed between Dipper and MaKenna - two vicious bulldogs in their own right - she’s exhausted._ _

__

__They’re quiet until the assembly begins._ _

__

__The principal wipes his eyes with a handkerchief before beginning. “Death, students, is a part of life. It happens to all of us - the worst of us, the best of us.”_ _

__

__The mumbles and whispers at the corners of the hall are snuffed out._ _

__

__“Last night, a terrible tragedy fell upon us; Melanie Wright, senior, was murdered.”_ _

__

__The whispers come back with a vengeance._ _

__

__“We have no idea who would have committed such an atrocity. If any of you - anyone at all - has any idea as to who would do such a thing, then, by all means, speak up. Tell me, an administrator, a teacher, call the police yourself if you must. But, do not stay silent. We want justice for Melanie’s death, and we will have justice, but we need the help of all of you._ _

__

__“A few individuals have asked to speak,” the principal continued. “Please, give them your utmost respect.”_ _

__

__Mabel folds her hands in her lap, respectfully taking in each word they say. Marco speaks, and so does Giani, and then two other people Mabel doesn’t recognize before Silas Nier steps up to the podium._ _

__

__She’d know those highlighter-yellow Lebrons anywhere. He’s even wearing the same gross, stained gray hoodie he wore all through freshman year._ _

__

__She only knows him because he used to pester Dipper for her number, and when Dipper proved to be a dead end, she started pestering everyone else Mabel knew before coming to her and outright asking if she wanted to have sex with him. (Dipper would’ve probably punched his lights out, but he wasn’t tall and intimidating in freshman year - in fact, in freshman year, they were both incredibly tiny. So, Dipper resolved to make the guy’s life a living hell until he quit. Mabel never asked what he did to make Silas go away, but it was extremely effective.)_ _

__

__She knows, for a fact, that Melanie Wright would never come within ten feet of Silas Nier. She used to chase Silas away from Mabel’s heels all the time, in fact. So why was he speaking at a ceremony about her death?_ _

__

__“Hey,” Silas says. “I didn’t know Melanie very well, but I do know that she was a beautiful person, with a beautiful soul. She had an effect, y’know, on people. She gave me courage, just by being who she was. And this? This, _this_ is courage. You need the help of the people to find the killer, and I found the killer: Mabel Pines.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mabel, you need to stop lying to your brother, it's not going to get you anywhere good! ;)
> 
> Anyway, I'm still getting back into the feel of this fic, so my apologies for the copious Pines twins fluff... actually, no, I'm never apologizing for twin fluff, what the hell am I thinking? 
> 
> So, the next should be up pretty soon! If it's not, you have my explicit permission to kick my ass. Do it. Please, I need a reason to write this faster.


	7. GSV DLNZM RM GSV TIZEV RH EVIB XOVEVI; XZM HSV SRWV SVI KOZMH ULIVEVI?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE IGNORE THE SPACING, AO3 WON'T LOAD THE SPACING FIXES. I'VE TRIED 5 TIMES. I'M GIVING UP. OH GOD DO I TRY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for abuse!
> 
> Also... please don't hate me for this chapter, I am a lowly scribe, and I have written this chapter almost exclusively between 3-4 AM the past three days. I am simple, tired, lowly scribe, do not hate me. 
> 
> This is 14 pages of condensed hell. This child has no time to process anything. I am so, so sorry, Dipper Pines, what have I done to you?

It takes Dipper one minute too long to comprehend what Silas just said, and it’s one minute wasted _not_ pounding the guy into oblivion.

 

Loud gasps echo throughout the crowd, punctuated by shouts and screams. A lot of students turn to stare at Mabel - Mabel, who’s too lost for words. Her green eyes are blown wide, like Silas’s words were a literal explosion and she’s basking in the aftermath.

 

_tha.thump.tha.thump._

 

(Dipper’s about to become a literal explosion. He is, very literally, about to introduce his fist to Silas’s face, in a very explosive way. It’s going to be _beautiful._ )

 

Mabel looks… she looks _broken_ , in an integral, foundational way, like she’s violated her own moral code by being _accused_ of violating it. 

 

That’s when things start blanking out - one minute, he’s realizing that he is so, so fucking angry that he’s going to skin Silas into long, thin fillets and _feed them to the fucking wolves._ If Dipper wasn’t pissed beyond belief before, he is now, and it is a righteous fury that cannot be outran. It’s that kind of fury that Dipper can only describe through blood, that intense feeling that he is, absolutely, one-hundred-percent, _going to crush this motherfucker’s spine with his bare hands._

_tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump._

No one messes with his sister and gets away with it. He’ll shoot _himself_ in the face before he lets another Melanie Wright get their just desserts from anyone other than him. 

 

Dipper’s up and screaming, _”You can’t fucking prove it, you bastard!_ She’s a better person than your bitchass could ever fucking hope to be!”

 

He screams so loud his throat is raw afterwards, and a lot of people gasp, as if they were scandalized. A teacher shouts at Dipper, “Mr. Pines! Sit down!”

 

“Dipper!” Mabel hisses, pulling on his hoodie. “What are you doing? Sit down!”

 

“I’m going to put his ass through a damn meat grinder,” Dipper growls. “I’ll shred him. And I’m going to enjoy every - damn - _second.”_

 

Mabel’s eyes widen. “Dipper, what are you -”

 

“It’s true!” Silas howls.

 

_thathumpthathumpthathumptha -_

 

Dipper’s up and moving before anyone can think to stop him - 

_rip his eyes out one by one because everyone has eyes that nobody can see and he’s going to find all of them with the business end of a sharp object, he’s going to poundpoundpound a hole through Silas’s heart and parade his head around on a spike it will be wonderful_ \- and then he’s being dragged away, force on his wrists and arms, pulling him back from the brink.

 

As they drag him away, Dipper has a fleeting moment where he feels like a polar bear behind six inches of glass, unstoppable save for the tiny barrier between him, revenge and all those eyes. 

 

He’s led out of the auditorium, several teachers flanking his sides, shoulders thrown back and his fists balled into his best natural weapons. It’s probably the most aggressive any of the student body have seen him, and a large portion of the student body has seen Dipper Pines pissed at some point in their high school career.

 

During the walk to the main office, Dipper stews in his rage; _I’m going to pull his brain out through his nose,_ comes up a lot. It’s true. He’s going to lay waste to that fucker. Silas Nier is going to _regret_ being born. He’s going to peel Silas’s skin from his bones and it will be _righteous_ retribution. 

 

The teachers look a little scared of him when they deposit him in the office - beside the guidance counselor’s door, and police officer broadens his stance. Dipper very nearly snorts; the strange, unholy sea that overtakes him when he gets angry has its claws inside his heart still. It takes all of his willpower not to find their fear hilarious.

 

Then, Dipper’s locked inside the empty guidance office, left to watch the clock tick from two-thirty to two-forty-five to three o’clock.

 

It’s boring. The boredom seeps the last vestiges of anger from his spine, leaving him slumped, boneless, in his chair. It leaves him exhausted, being angry, but he’s never not pissed at something so he’s always exhausted, and it’s an intense cycle with no sign of stopping.

 

Then a petite, austere blonde woman opens the door with a, “Sorry I’m late, I was discussing with your sister, Mabel, and Mr. Nier.”

 

Dipper stiffens. “How’s Mabel?”

 

“She’s doing good,” the counselor says, curiously. “Based on your initial reaction to, ah, that particular incident, I would think your main question would’ve been about Mr. Nier.”

 

“You thought wrong,” Dipper says. “So, can I leave, or…?”

 

The counselor laughs. “You're hilarious, Dipper.”

 

“I didn’t exactly do much,” Dipper says. “I don’t see why I’m here, Mrs. Rhodes.”

 

Mrs. Rhodes, true to her usual dry wit, snickers. “Mr. Pines, you got up, charged through the auditorium seats, and were attempting to, well, beat Mr. Nier’s face in!”

 

Dipper blinks, uncomprehendingly. “What? I’d remember if I did all that -”

 

“Well, I assure you, Mr. Pines; you did all of that and more. You shouted some very… profoundly graphic sentences at Mr. Nier. If you remember a past incident you had with D’Von Mahn, it was just a little worse than that.”

 

Dipper winces. “I remember that part.”

 

“It got worse when you started moving.”

 

“Oh,” Dipper says. 

 

“Just to let you know,” Mrs. Rhodes says, pushing her glasses up, “The first threat against Mr. Nier you made was grounds for suspension.”

 

“So was the one with Jancy,” Dipper mutters.

 

“You do realize, Dipper, that the only reason you’re still attending this school is that we have terrible test cores as a general rule, and your test scores happen to be phenomenal?” Mrs. Rhodes says. “I think I might have told you that, oh, eight thousand times since Jancy?”

 

“Maybe eight thousand and three,” Dipper remarks.

 

“I can’t just sit back and let this happen any longer, Mr. Pines. The principal has requested I take action. No matter how much you say that you’re going to get better, you never do. I think that you need help, and you’ve been trying to get out of it for the last three and a half years,” Mrs. Rhodes says.

 

Dipper shrugs deeper into his hoodie. “Mrs. Rhodes -”

“‘Mrs. Rhodes, I don’t need help, I’m fine, it’ll never happen again,’” she mimes. “How many times have I heard that?”

 

“A lot,” Dipper sighs. “But, it’s just -”

 

“But nothing, Dipper,” Mrs. Rhodes says. “There’s no possible way you can get out of this. This school desperately needs the credit you give it, but you’re what we call a problematic student, and, thus, we’re solving the problem.”

 

“I’m not that bad,” Dipper says.

 

“Oh, okay? Do I need to bring up Raymond?” 

 

“Please don’t bring up Raymond,” Dipper protests, weakly.

 

“You threw Raymond out of a window on the second story,” she says. “He just barely didn’t press charges.”

 

“... Did you _have_ to bring up Raymond?” Dipper asks.

 

“He got a restraining order, like Mr. Nier is about to do.”

 

“You just _had_ to bring up Raymond,” Dipper mutters. “I apologized - seriously, I did - like eighty times.”

 

“You broke three of his ribs!” Mrs. Rhodes exclaimed.

 

“I had reason to!” Dipper says. “He cheated on my sister!”

 

“And she’s perfectly capable of fighting her own battles,” Mrs. Rhodes says. 

Dipper huffs. Mrs. Rhodes has him cornered; Mabel _can_ fight her own battles, and she’s told Dipper that he should back off before.

 

“So, your sentence is -”

 

“I’m not a criminal!”

 

“You are now!” Mrs. Rhodes retorts. “You’re officially at Weenie Hut Junior for Criminals. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

 

“Hey, at least it’s Weenie Hut _Junior_ -”

 

Mrs. Rhodes sighs, takes off her glasses, and massages her temples. “Dipper, I love you to death, son. I think you’re downright hilarious, too. You’re one of the best students I work with, but you are, by far, the most _difficult_ person I have ever met in my entire life.”

 

“It runs in the family,” Dipper says. “You would have a field day with my great uncle.”

 

“In that case, keep him no less than eight miles away from me. One Pines is enough for the rest of my career,” she says.

 

Dipper pouts. “I thought you loved me to death and that I was one of the best students you work with.”

 

“What do they say, these days?” Mrs. Rhodes asks. “Aha! You have no ‘chill,’ Dipper.” Her fingers form air quotes around 'chill.'

 

Dipper snickers. “I get that a lot, actually, just with less air quotes.”

 

“Don’t patronize me, young man, I am the reason you still have a place at this school,” Mrs. Rhodes says.

 

“Thank you,” Dipper replies. “Really, thank you, for that.”  


Mrs. Rhodes smiles at him - a teeny, genuine one. “The pleasure’s all mine. Now, I hope you know that it’s going to look incredibly biased on the school’s part that you haven’t been suspended. That’s because it _is_ a truly incredible bias on your part. If anyone brings it up, please, for the love of all that is good and sane, do _not_ start threatening people if they point this out. I am _begging_ you, Pines.”

 

Dipper ducks his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“That’s not genuine enough, Pines,” she says. “I, Jane Rhodes, hereby _challenge_ you to keep your temper under lock and key. And after you lock it up, throw it in a dungeon.”

“I thought therapists were supposed to tell people to express their emotions,” Dipper huffs.

“Not when your emotions are limited to _hello fellow adolescents, it’s murder time._ We’ll save the sharing and caring for our after-school sessions, which are now compulsory for the both of us every day until I see enough change to drop them to weekly sessions. And, just to be clear, as long as you’re a student at this high school, you will be attending at least weekly sessions,” Mrs. Rhodes says.

Dipper blinks. “Oh, great, Mabel is going to hate me.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

“Thanks for your great, confidence-building words of wisdom, Rhodey,” Dipper says.

“I will hang you in my office by your ears, Pines,” she says. 

“And _I’m_ the murderous one?”

 

“My version of homicide is theoretical, I’m the size of a garden gnome. You? You could kill someone,” she says. “In all seriousness, Dipper, this is your final warning - gör si, gör så.”

Dipper blinks. Had he heard that right? “What?”

“Just as I said; gör si, gör så.”

“But what -” Dipper stalls at Mrs. Rhodes’s raised eyebrows, and cuts himself off. “Nevermind, Mrs. Rhodes.”

As he’s leaving, Mrs. Rhodes calls, “Gör si, gör så!” to his back.

He lets Ms. Ray press a packet of papers into his hand, numbly taking them and folding them into his pocket. His phone is vibrating like crazy, but he couldn’t bring himself to check it; for once, he didn’t even want to talk to Mabel. He wasn’t sure if he’d understand what she was saying, anyway; he keeps hearing a lot of insane stuff, lately.

He'll have to think about that at some point, but that time is not now.

As he’s leaving, someone - D’Von Mahs, probably - howls, “Fuckin’ psycho!” and it grates on Dipper’s nerves like nobody’s business. The chorus of laughter that follows doesn’t help much, either. 

It’s confirmed that it’s D’Von when the dark-skinned teen shoves past him, grinning. “Whatcha gonna do, big boy?”

Zakese, the guy behind D’von, snickers. “Li’l bitch gonna come at you, bruh, better watch it.”

D’Von whirls away, laughing. “Catch me if you can, Pines!”

It takes all the self-control Dipper’s got left to keep his fists balled up in the pockets of his hoodie, and by the time he’s made it outside, into the cool, liberating air, his energy is spent. 

Naturally, that’s when his dad shows up.

His mom’s old car is parked on the curb in front of the school, lovingly polished and glittering the dull green it always has; it looks like a friendly, happy car, somehow. 2006 Camrys tend to look that way, Dipper guesses.

His dad, who was all the Pines’s broad shoulders and intense gaze, looked completely out of place.

The thing about Don Pines is that he can be a decent human being, but only when it’s convenient. The rest of the time, he’s an ass, and grief has done his personality no favors and about thirty-seven disservices to date. 

Dipper can even spy a silver Miller Coors can in the cup holder, and he’s momentarily tempted to turn around, tell the office his dad showed up buzzed, and watch with a vicious smirk as his dad gets arrested.

Alas, Mabel would be pissed at him for the rest of eternity, so, against his better judgement, he slides into the Camry’s passenger seat.

He’s greeted, immediately, with a grunt. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was busy,” Dipper says, simply. Back when he was eleven or so, he used to try to impress his dad in any way he could; it never worked, though, and after Gravity Falls happened, Dipper’s priorities went through a major renovation. All of the dead weight was cut out, and bettering the relationship with his father - the same one Don wouldn’t poke with a ten-foot pole - was considered dead weight. 

Since then, they’d barely interacted more than absolutely necessary for two people who lived together. If Don wasn’t going to try, then, fuck it, Dipper wasn’t going to, either.

“I don’t care. You should’ve answered your phone.”

 

“Oops,” Dipper shrugs.

 

His dad blows out a breath through his nose, reaches to the console, and turns the radio up. 

 

_Good,_ Dipper thinks. _Minimal bloodshed._

 

He thought too soon, of course.

 

Halfway through the ride, Don turns the radio back down. “Text your sister and tell her to run out for pizza.”

“Why can’t we do it? We’re already out -”

“I need to talk to you,” his dad interrupts. “And it’s best if your sister isn’t there for a while.”

“You know, she really does hate it when you try to exclude her from stuff like that,” Dipper says. “If you can’t say it to me in front of her, we’ve got a problem.”

“Your _attitude_ is the problem. I know my daughter, now send the damn text,” he growls.

Dipper casts a curious glance over at him. His dad’s an ass, sure, but he’s not an _overt_ ass. He usually specializes in stressing his kids out with unreasonably high expectations and then getting pissed when his kids inevitably fail, but this? This is strange.

Dipper sends the text and gets an immediate ‘okay! also pls be chill hes grumpy af’ back.

“She just left,” Dipper says.

Don nods. 

It takes another couple of minutes to reach the house, and the second Dipper gets out of the car, his dad’s got his arm in a death grip.

“Ow! What the hel - heck, dad?” Dipper complains. Don all but throws him through the door.

Dipper whirls around the second he regains his balance. “What is your problem -”

“You!” he snaps. “You’re my fuckin’ problem, kid!”

Dipper recoils. “I knew you’d be piss - angry, about today, but that’s overkill.”

His dad’s fists are shaking in barely-controlled rage. “Overkill? You wanna talk about overkill? Isn’t trying to attack another student during a _ceremony_ overkill!?”

“Well, I mean -”

“Don’t you dare say something smart and witty,” his dad snarls. “It’s not fuckin’ cute to say that shit. It’s not fuckin’ funny. I had to stare Mr. Wright in the face and apologize for the disruption _you_ caused and I had to _talk him out of pressing charges for it!”_

 

_I really did fuck up,_ Dipper thinks. His dad was a tech guy for the Piedmont Police Department, and he took it seriously; it was how he’d met Marcella, after all. For something Dipper did to have directly affected it… Well. It wasn’t good news.

“Dad, I’m -”

“I don’t want to fuckin’ hear it,” his dad snaps. “I want you to goddamn shut the hell up and listen to me.”

Dipper’s mouth wired shut. That was definitely new.

“I have had it to here and beyond with your little stunts, you hear me? I’m done. I. Am. Done. If you so much as breathe the wrong way I will have your ass on a platter, do you fuckin’ understand me? You are going _nowhere_ , you are doing _nothing_ until you fucking graduate in May. No ifs, ands, or buts, I don’t give a fuck.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Dipper blurts. “Let that guy blame Mabel for something she didn’t do?”

“I told you that I didn’t want to hear any of your lip!” Don snaps. 

“What do you _want_ from me?” Dipper retorts. “I’m not apologizing.”

“I want something I can be proud of, but it looks like it’s too fucking late for that now,” he growls. 

That one _stings._

Don’s fingers hook around the handle of an iron skillet on the stove, picking it up. “Get to cleaning.”

Dipper’s mouth is running before he can put a leash on it. “Mom was proud of us whether we made mistakes or not.”

_Crack._

In one strong, fluid motion, his dad brought the skillet swinging up and crashing into Dipper’s skull. Everything turns black.

When Dipper’s vision clears and the pain settles in, he’s on the floor, the world spinning around him. He groans, and lifts a (shaking, why is he always shaking all of the time these days) hand to the left side of his face - it’s hot, and starting to swell, and it hurts like a bitch to _graze_ it. He can't even begin to imagine how it's going to feel when anything heavier touches it, like air, or water, or something.

_Holy fucking hell,_ Dipper thinks.

He stays crashed on the floor like that for what could be minutes, or eternities, or minutes that pass like eternities, until Mabel comes through the door with a loud shout; “Hola, boys!”

Dipper winces. “Not so loud,” he whispers.

It would be comical, the way Mabel whirls around, if it didn’t make Dipper’s head throb. 

Mabel’s mouth falls open. “Dipper? What happened to your -? Come on, brozosaurus, we’re getting you upstairs.”

Dipper blinks. Her neon pink sweater is glaring against his eyes, making her movements hard to comprehend. She doesn’t even realize that she’s trying to get him to stand up until he’s already being pulled to his feet; he wobbles in place until Mabel gently brings his head to rest against her shoulder.

“You took one hard hit,” she says. 

Dipper mumbles a butchered version of the word ‘yes’ into her shoulder.

Mabel rubs circles into his back. “C’mon, Sir Captain General Dipster,” she says. “We’re going to walk, and walk up the stairs! It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Dipper moans, making Mabel chuckle. 

“Let’s go,” she murmurs, and Dipper lifts his head up. His eyes are immediately assaulted by brightness, and he hisses something beneath his breath, but it comes out garbled.

Mabel’s brow creases. “That’s not good. That’s… that’s really not good. Let’s take it slow, Dip.”

Dipper doesn’t even try to nod, just blinked and hoped she assumed it was Morse Code or something.

Mabel stays true to her word and leads Dipper up the stairs one at a time, but it’s still hard for Dipper to think around the muddle in his head, and he trips twice. It really doesn’t help his pounding head at all. 

After a lot of hard work, Mabel somehow gets Dipper into his room - he doesn’t remember how. 

She leans down in front of him, and he tries his damnedest to keep his eyes on hers, but he keeps losing where they are. “Hey, Dipping Sauce, can you tell me what happened?”

Dipper blinks. He tries to form the words, but they come out as hot, pathetic bursts of air.

“Did it have something to do with grandma’s skillet being on the floor?” Mabel asks.

Dipper sends her a shaky thumbs up.

“Did someone hit you with it?”

Dipper gestures, wildly, with his hands, trying to convey that _it was Dad, it was Dad, that guy who sleeps in that general area_. It doesn’t work. Dipper works his throat, and croaks, “Dad.”

That one word breaks Mabel’s heart, and he can tell by the way her face crumples inward. “Really?”

Dipper sends her another thumbs up.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispers. “I didn’t think he’d ever - but -”

“S’my fault, anyways,” Dipper slurs.

Mabel’s eyes widen. “It is _not._ Dad had no right to do that, it is not your fault.”

“Mentioned Mom,” Dipper mumbles.

Mabel sighs. “Dipper… that doesn’t make it your fault.”

Dipper thinks that he is so, so tired of people sighing at him, so he doesn’t argue any further. He just gives her a tiny nod.

Mabel seems to know she hasn’t quite won yet, but she doesn’t press anything. “That’s a seven-pound skillet. Dad’s not a small guy… I think he knocked you out completely, at least for a little bit.”

“Probably,” Dipper whispers.

Mabel rubs her temples. “I bet you have a concussion. Oh, man, I don’t know how to deal with those - do I need to take you to the hospital? What -”

“No hospital,” Dipper says. “Dad’ll piss.”

Not quite what he was trying to say, but okay. It works. Dad has to piss sometime, right?

“He shouldn’t get a fucking say in if you go to the damn hospital or not, he’s the one who hit you with a cast iron skillet!” Mabel cries.

Dipper winces.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “It’s… I’ll call Grunkle Stan. If anyone knows what to do, it’s him.”

As she turns to leave the room, she sends one last, furtive look Dipper’s way, before turning around and engulfing him in a hug he didn’t know he needed until he needed it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

“S’not your fault,” he says. “S’all me.”

“We’ll talk about your guilt complex when you can speak full sentences,” she says. “But don’t you dare forget about that. That is a due conversation we’re having, I’m the boss, I’ve declared it.”

Dipper breathes in deep, inhaling her scent. “Y’smell like sunshine.”

Mabel laughs. “You smell like newborn puppies.”

“Thank,” Dipper says.

“Just wait right here,” she says, releasing him. “I’ll call Grunkle Stan. Try not to fall asleep, will you?”

“L’try,” Dipper says, before laying back on the bed.

“Be back soon!” Mabel says, and she shuts the door.

Of course, the first thing Dipper does is fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling about it, guys? First time we see the twins' father this whole time, and he's... an ass. Wow. Predictable. This chapter was hell to write, because a lot of it is exposition for the more emotional arcs pertaining to Dipper. Kid's got too many feels, they're spilling everywhere. 
> 
> The reason Don's character is... tougher than usual is because of an inference I made during Dipper vs Manliness; Dipper probably gets his idea of "masculinity," from his dad, and since the whole episode is about Dipper not living up to that standard, I bet he probably buts heads with his dad on that subject to the point where it's just exhausting to try and be near each other because what they believe is very, very similar. That, and they're both really, really quick to anger, and that never ends well. But, of course, Don is acting way out of line here. I'd like to tell you he apologizes, but. Alas.
> 
> Some people may find this angrier characterization of Dipper OOC, but Dipper's a really spiteful dude; I mean, in Northwest Mansion Mystery, he was willing to let everyone in that mansion die by letting the ghost back in, but the only reason he didn't was because Mabel was in there. And in Not What He Seems? He was literally screaming. This child has issues. If you have questions about that, just ask me!
> 
> Now, real fucking talk: how's Grunkle Stan going to react to hearing that his great nephew got hit with a cast iron skillet... by his own dad? 
> 
> Any questions, comments, concerns, love letters an hatemail can be left below or at jerseydevious.tumblr.com, in the good old ask box.


	8. HHC ILGSGPPOG LV XZI IKWK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KL LKB FP TEXQ QEBV PBBJ QL YB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR trigger warnings for gore and implied child abuse. Especially gore. Remember when I said this fic was going to get bloody? We've reached that point. We're at the point where everything goes downhill. If the intense description of gore - but not the description of pain - bothers you, do not read, do not read.

It’s freezing.

The winter hadn’t been so bad in Piedmont until recently, probably around a week ago. Since then, it’s been absolutely frigid, on the levels of places like Washington or Oregon. It’s more than a little ridiculous.

All the more reason to bust out this bitchin’ coat, Silas thinks, shrugging deeper into the material. It smells thickly of the cigarette smoke and booze from Mackie’s party, but Silas is used to it; his dad’s trailer smells the same way.

He’d been hoping that Mackie’s party would de-stress him. He’s been internally off-put since the ceremony earlier that same day, the same one he hadn’t even known he was supposed to speak at until after he’d done so.

The whole thing was weird - one moment, he’s doing his thing, and then he’s staring into the furious eyes of Dipper Pines as he attempts to scale the stage.

Silas isn’t sure what happened, even now. He must’ve done something, though, because everyone’s been giving him weird looks all night.

But, Silas doesn’t want to think about his (copious) problems, so he keeps his brain occupied on his breath swirling in front of him - seriously. The damn winter must’ve had a second fucking wind; he looked like a goddamn dragon breathing smoke, and his fingers felt like nerveless rubber.

Silas is so distracted by cursing the change in the weather that he slips on a patch of black ice.

“Oh, fuck me,” Silas hisses. “Ice? Fucking ice? That’s goddamn ridiculous, I don’t live in Cali for this shit!”

His feet slide against the ice as he tries to get the damn things back beneath him, the fucking assholes. “Fuck.”

Silas manages to brace himself on the brick wall, huffing harsh breaths that billow in icy clouds. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so busy being pissed off at the stupid weather,

It’s then that he hears the cracking.

Silas’s heart freezes - it’s so awful. It’s wet, and sloppy, like a crocodile gobbling down a half-rotten carcass, gross blisters popping and spilling  Liquid hits the concrete thickly, syrupy  - _splat. splat. splat._ CRUNCH. gulp.

Huge, huffing breaths grate against his ears like sandpaper. Two rough objects scrape against each other, like nails against a chalkboard, and the noises of feasting cease.

Then, illuminated by the streetlight, a head emerges out of the alleyway in front of him - long and flat, punctured by a gaping mouth. Between the tips of its teeth, the decapitated head of a five-year-old rests, eyes turned glassy and face splattered with blood.

Silas has to bite his own tongue to choke down on a scream - he’s seen decapitation on video games and movies, but this is different. It’s _real._ He can practically taste the scent of blood and death, the same gross, awful scent that clings to the beast’s thick fur and rolls off of it in waves.

Huge horns adorn the top of the thing’s head, shiny and black. From what little of the beast’s spine he can see, there’s bones - literal vertebrae - that are punctured with upward-facing, bony spines, like giant shark’s teeth scraping against the sky.

He can’t tell what color the fur is. For one, the thing is blocking the streetlamp, the only source of light. For another, its fur is matted and dripping with blood - it must be a messy eater.

_Messy eater._ Holy fuck. He’s going to get _eaten._

Silas knows what it’s like to feel like a cornered animal; he’s cowered beneath his dad’s shadow, his uncle’s shadow, his mother’s shadow for the last seventeen years. But, _this?_ This is what deer feel like when the wolves stalk them through the woods without ever daring to stop; this is a wholesale kind of fear, the knowledge that there is something bigger than you and it is _ravenous_ and you’re the next target.

 

_(it is ravenous - it is thirsty, it is famine defined, starvation clings to its visible bones that jut out like spears and it's golden green eyes)_

He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know, he just knows that this is it; you can’t reason with wild.

Silas can’t stop the squeak that slips out of his throat, and the thing’s head snaps to face him, crunching the child’s head as it does so. Brain matter and blood spurt out through the gaps between its teeth, spattering the street.

It cracks the shards of the kid’s face between its teeth repeatedly; it doesn’t have lips, only crooked teeth rooted outside of the maw, so chunks of brain slide through the gaps and slap against the ground. One eye is speared on a tooth, and the beast prods it with its tongue.

The monster’s set of green - _green, green, of all things for a monster’s eyes to be_ \- eyes widen, pupils narrowing to slits. Its nostrils flare.

It advances forward, and Silas backpedals, scrabbling on the ice like he’s actually got a hope in hell.

“No, no, no, please don’t - no - please -”

The beast’s paw wraps around one of Silas’s legs - monsters can’t be reasoned with. The teenager sobs, shouting, “H-help me! Help! What the fuck - what the fuck are you -”

And then the beast leans down to Silas’s level, blood and spit spraying Silas’s face with every deep, ragged breath the monster’s over-sized lungs heave.

“Please,” Silas whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m so f-fucking sorry, I don’t know - _please -”_

The muzzle of the monster - oddly reminiscent of the muzzle of a deer - gently presses against Silas’s chest, breaking his skin out in goosebumps from the layer of cool condensation that covers it. It traces the artery from his heart to his neck, breath softly caressing his skin like a foul-smelling kiss. Silas’s head is forced to the side by the monster’s great muzzle. Condensation - or blood - are smeared against his skin

Silas sobs, and the monster _croons_ ; it’s jaws vibrate with the deepness of it, shaking against Silas’s neck. The blood-soaked teeth scrape and hook against the soft flesh as it presses its face almost lovingly against Silas’s skin - holy shit, _what the fuck is happening?_

“What - the - fuck, just kill me -”

Almost instantly, the beast pulls at Silas’s jacket with its teeth; it struggles at first, before growling and tearing the jacket off with a sharp jerk that nearly dislocates his right arm. It continues going through Silas’s layers until his chest is exposed to the freezing air.

“H-Holy sh- it,” Silas cries. “Fucking hell, just kill me!”

This is too much - is this thing - is it stripping him?

The monster blinks at him, innocently, before prodding at the skin near his belly button with a hooked tooth, and then nipping, catching skin between its teeth and then ripping-

_shrrripppp._

Silas howls as pain blooms with a furious intent, spreading along his abdomen like a fire.

Swinging aimlessly from the beast’s maw is a long strip of his skin, from belly button to collarbone, and the beast slurps it up like spaghetti. A piece of meat flies off of the string and gets caught on the speared eye, the two slick surfaces mingling.

“F -fuck -”

He’s quickly shut up by a mouthful of blood-soaked fur. Its clawed fingers worm into his mouth, over-sized, razor-sharp claws ripping through the lining of his mouth before hooking on the meat of his tongue and ripping it out in one smooth movement.

The beast snaps up the tiny morsel in a self-assured fashion, before going back to its original task; skinning Silas alive.

_shrip. shrip. shrriiiiiiiip_.

-

Mabel slips out of Dipper’s room, darting into her own. She’s glad she wears fuzzy socks beneath her boots; childish as it is, the rainbow-patterned sleeves of comfort are part of what’s keeping her upright. It’s the little things, after all.

Just the thought of Don Pines is enough to make her stomach tumble. Once she’s in her room, her quaking fingers are dialing the one person she trusts to give her the best advice possible - Grunkle Stan.

She doesn’t like remembering the way Dipper’s head was lolling, the unfocused portion of his eyes, the furnace-like heat of his body pressed against hers because he couldn’t even stand straight. There’s too much of Gravity Falls buried between those lines, too many crags that hook on the soft flesh of her heart.

So, Mabel opts to not think about it, and let Grunkle Stan do the thinking instead. The phone rings for a whole second before Grunkle Stan is on the line, saying, “Mabel? Sweetie, is that you?”

It’s kind of sad, the way his voice breaks. One of the things Mabel’s held in highest contempt is the way she and Dipper had to leave him behind, just because of the town he lives in.

Then again, it’s still kind of on them.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan,” she greets. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“I thought I chewed you kids out about your long-distance communication skills, and yet,” Grunkle Stan huffs. “And yet, this is the first time you’ve called me in - what, three years?”

“You were here last week!”  
  


“Doesn’t count. I’m hurt. You kiddos wound me,” Grunkle Stan says. “I’ve been mortally wounded.”

Mabel chuckles, but it’s terse. Tight. She can’t laugh knowing that her dad hit Dipper with a freaking -

“Anyways, whatcha callin’ for, sweetie? You feelin’ alright?” Grunkle Stan asks.

Mabel very nearly bursts into tears. She hates being emotional, and she hates crying a lot; she wishes she was like Dipper, who could take all that bad and use it to fuel a hurricane of spit and fire. Sadness sucks. Anger, though, anger is _purifying_ ; it gives Dipper a breed of strength that you can’t build yourself, that can only come from fury, and it’s unstoppable.

Mabel wants to be unstoppable. She’s tired of getting drug around by the ends of her emotions all of the time.

“It’s not - It’s not me. It’s, uh, Dipper,” Mabel says. “I think he has a concussion.”

“Wait, hold it - a concussion? What, did he bang his head on the ceiling when he got up this morning?”

Mabel can’t help but laugh at that one. It’s a pathetic laugh - there are gross, fat tears running down her face, slipping into her mouth through the corners of her smile. “No, you silly goose.”

“I better be the damn silliest of geese,” Grunkle Stan says. “What did that crazy kiddo get into?”

Mabel bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth until the soft skin gets caught on the edges and pulls away. “It’s, uh, please don’t freak out, Grunkle Stan. I need you to be the calmest, silliest goose in the whole wide world, promise?”

“Calmest, silliest goose, I’ve got it.”

“Okay, um, so at school, to sum it up, a bunch of stuff happened. Dipper got in a lot of trouble. It was a big thing, you know -”

“Yeah, but what did he do?”

That thing. Right. She can’t get away with leaving stuff half-explained, can she?

“He, uh, said some very… explicit things and nearly attacked someone. At an honorary ceremony,” Mabel says.

“... _Sweet mercy syrup,_ you’re kidding me.”

“I’m absolutely serious. One-thousand percent serious. If you’re the silliest goose, I’m the most serious, sternest goose in the history of ever, for always,” Mabel says. “This dummy - Silas Nier - said something about me, and Dipper flipped.”

“And I’m guessing one of the gathered kids threw him into a wall? The ground? It’s hard to take a Pines to the ground, I’m telling you,” Stan says. “Especially you two. You two… you got my dad’s gene, must have. You’re fuckin’ giants.”

“Dipper was actually tackled by, like, four teachers,” Mabel says. “He put the literal fear of god in them, Grunkle Stan, you should’ve seen it. I mean, he’s my brother, and I love him, but that’s… he needs a box of tissues for his anger issues. It was - it was scary.”

She feels horrible for saying it. She feels horrible for letting the words cross her lips, but it’s true; Dipper’s damn scary when he’s not trying.

(And she feels just a tad hypocritical, because doesn’t she want that same power?)

“Have you two ever talked about it?” Grunkle Stan asks. “I mean, as in, it scaring you.”

“No,” Mabel says. “I never - I mean, I knew he got into fights n’stuff at school, but… I thought it was just him being protective, not an actual problem-problem, y’know?”

That was mostly true - she’d always just assumed Dipper’s love for her turned, naturally, into protectiveness. But the look on his face at the ceremony was more than just overprotective, whether it was a warranted reaction to Silas’s… _announcement_ or not.

“The best thing you can do is talk to him about it,” Grunkle Stan says.

“You’re right,” Mabel replies. “But after the concussion, like, ceases to exist. That should come first.”

“How’s he feelin’?”

“He can’t talk, not really, it all sounds all slur-y, and he has no balance - you try carrying him up the stairs, it’s not easy - and he… I just get the feeling he can’t think right?” Mabel says. “He’s not explaining himself well.”

“Concussion. Hopefully not too bad, it could still swing either way,” Grunkle Stan answers. “But how did he get a concussion at school?”

_Send help_ , Mabel thinks.

“He, uh, didn’t.”

“On the street?”

“No.”

“... Where did it happen, Mabel?” Grunkle Stan asks. His voice has taken on a cold, icy tone; he’s reached the conclusion Mabel doesn’t want to have to explain.

“I wasn’t home - I was out picking up pizza - and my dad, he, he heard about the situation, the one at school. And, I guess they got into a fight, and - and -”

“What happened, Mabel?” Grunkle Stan demands.

“He hit Dipper with a cast iron skillet?” Mabel says. It voices itself as a question. Her voice cracks at the end, too; she's pathetic.

There’s dead silence over the line, just Grunkle Stan’s labored breath and Mabel’s barely-tamed hitching breath.

Then -

_“That son of a fucking bitch!”_ Grunkle Stan howls. Mabel flinches away from her cellphone - he's shouting at an unholy decibel. “I’ll turn his ass into a _carpet_ , that motherfucking _foul piece of shit_ \- oh, just you wait, I’ll kick his ass into _kingdom come_ just fucking _watch me_ -”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel chastises. “The calmest, silliest goose, remember?”  
  


_“Donovan Pines is going to get a fist so far up his ass that he’ll be tasting his own shit for the next five years!”_

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shrieks. “Can you please -”

“Does he not know how to care for a fucking kid - you never, ever hit your own children with a damn frying pan, no matter what shit they do. No, not a frying pan, a _cast iron skillet_ \- that can kill someone. No wonder the kid’s having such a hard time, that hit could have literally killed him! Don’s gonna get a good damn taste of his own damn medicine -”

“While I agree with that,” Mabel interrupts, sharply. “I need to know what I’m supposed to do.”

The desperate keen of her voice must get his attention, because Grunkle Stan’s tirade stops with an enraged blow of breath, the kind that buffalo do. Probably.

(The mental image of Grunkle Stan as a buffalo is wonderful. A giant, fluffy cow in a fez. _Perfect._ )

“Watch Dipper. Wait a little bit, and see if it worsens, and if doesn’t get better, take him,” Stan says. “I’m coming down, there’s no way in hell you two are staying, alone, with a bastard who thinks it’s okay to hit his own kid. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

Mabel’s crying again. She’s so, so tired of crying. “Please,” she whispers. “He’s, just - I’m scared. Dipper’s not the kind of guy who’ll back down from a challenge, but he’d never fight back against Dad because Dad’s family, and Dad clearly will be violent, and… Oh, God, this is so messed up.”

“Hey, sweetheart? It’s all going to be okay. All of it. I’ll be down tomorrow night, at the latest,” Grunkle Stan says. “I’m officially taking a vacation. The second I’m there, you two are my priority.”

“Okay,” Mabel breathes. “That sounds… that sounds amazing. I really, really missed you, Grunkle Stan - and I know Dipper does, too. He’d tell you, but he’s out-of-action.”

“I love you kids, remember that,” Grunkle Stan says. “I’ll be there soon, just hang on. Now go check up on your brother. Make sure he doesn’t do anything too dumb.”

“Will do,” Mabel says.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

“ _Au revoir_ , silly goose.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She hangs up on Grunkle Stan with a sigh.

Mabel ducks back into Dipper’s room to find him curled on his side, clutching a pillow and slumbering quietly. It’s the most adorable thing ever, in possibly the history of ever, other than baby elephants.

After coo-ing softly for at least a minute, Mabel heads downstairs and peeks through the curtains; her dad’s car is absent, just like she expected. Bastard.

Mabel eyes the couch longingly - she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in forever.

**  
**She quickly pulls out her phone, sets an alarm for two hours, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a pretty short chapter - but Mabes needs sleep, guys, I literally cannot remember the last time she slept. I'm so sorry, Mabel Pines, I am so sorry. Ending it here felt better rather than me continue to rewrite a useless scene over and over - so, well, have a chapter that's half blood and half Stan screaming with the fun addition of Grunkle Stan as a buffalo.
> 
> Enjoy! I'm really jonesing on the next chapter - it's kind of already done, oops - so expect a really quick update. (Hopefully.) Next chapter we're pitching back into the plot - well, this is all plot, it's all essential to the plan, but we're pitching back into Mom Pines the Mystery once again. 
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, loud rants about my failure to update quickly - leave them below or at jerseydevious.tumblr.com! Now, I gotta ask, which performance of the beastie's was better - the Melanie one or the Silas one? (holy shit that's a fucked up question)


	9. FC VLR ILLH ZILPBIV VLR'II ZLJB QL CFKA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DOO WKLV RI ZROYHV DQG VKHHS
> 
> LV DOO ILQH DQG GDQGB WR UHDS
> 
> EXW WKH RQH L GLG OHDYH RXW
> 
> LV WKH ELUG WKDW IOLHV WKH ZHVWHUQ URXWH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's really, super, very late? It's me! But, the important thing is, the chapter's posted now!
> 
> Trigger warnings for talk of abuse, abuse, graphic violence, death mentions, y'know, all of the stuff that's been going on throughout this whole fic.

all of those things that you desire can be found deep in the fire; i’ll wrap those things so nice in a frigid layer of ice, and the north wind’ll be along to point the way deep beneath the fray. i’ve only felt religious when i’ve burned eighty and half bridges by the light of the solar flare lighting up beneath your hair. you should learn to keep your mouth shut - i’ve got scissors and strings to cut, i’ve got cars to crash and actions to make rash - so move along son, and watch the color of the sun ‘cause everything you love is about to change. embrace the strange. deny the wild, come on, child, there’s a society of wolves so vicious and they’re bathing in riches because we’re rolling in the sacrilegious and now we’re on fire from the superstitious - but in the end you’re all sheep, and i’m letting the wolf in, so you can’t even P E E P.

-

Dipper bolts awake, heart hammering in his chest. His fingers are tied into his bedsheets, knuckles turning white where the blood is draining between the layer of skin and bone. Like Mabel’s body beneath the burning Oregon sun, leaking blood -

His heart is hammering: _thumthumthumthumthumthumthump.thumthumthumthumthump._ It taps out a repeated pattern, one Dipper knows well - he knows what to do. He knows how to fix it, too.

But he can’t. Not this time. He knows, in his bones, that he is going to sit here and drown in panic and fear because he can’t get himself to move - he can’t breathe around the heat, there’s fire in his ribcage, so cold it’s painfully hot. The flames lick into his throat and sit there to scald him alive - or is that the rasping as he tries to suck down air through collapsing lungs?

His ears are ringing with the sound of _screeech, crash, the bloody gurgling of Jessica Whittemore as her throat is ripped out through teeth, the strands of flesh plastered to the teeth of the monster that raises its head, the cutthroat roar the screech and crash the sorrowful screaming of parents walking into a massacre the howling of people who died too slow the screech and crash the ripple effect and the wolves in the corner the screech and crash the terror in the streets thescreechandcrashthescreechandcrashthescreechandcrash -_

“Stan,” Dipper rasps, through a thick, heavy throat. “Oh - holy -”

_He’s dead._

His fingers unwind from the sheets and creak like floorboards - he must’ve been holding on for dear life longer than he’d thought. 

They shake, his fingers bumping clumsily into the others, so he buries them in the material of his shirt - a plaid button-down. What he’d worn to school yesterday. School yesterday, or today?

Dipper blinks, realizing with a dull horror that the room around him is pulsing where his eyes refuse to focus, casting doubles and triples of objects that spin and whirl. It’s a small blessing that the room is dark; at least his skull doesn’t feel like tectonic plates whirring on lava.

With a sharp horror he realizes that he doesn’t remember going to sleep. He doesn’t remember anything of last night, actually.

 _There’s something messing with my head_ , Dipper thinks. _Oh my god, I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember anything and those people might be dead, I watched Grunkle Stan die, what’s happening oh my fucking hell what is happening -_

Dipper falls out of the bed, gasps turning into a burning hyperventilation that makes him dizzy - or is that just the thing in his head? Bill? Has he come to cash in?

Dipper tries to brace himself on the chair, but it slides against the wood floor and clatters to the ground. 

“Get up!” someone shouts. A hand clasps around his bicep like steel, and Dipper’s being flung through the doorway like he weighs nothing.

His head crashes against the wall of the hallway, and he gasps as black fills his vision. “Fucking hell -”

“That’s where you’re going, now clean yourself up, you’re a fucking embarrassment.”

“Wait - _Dad!?_ ” Dipper blinks, rapidly, trying to understand the cruel malice that rolls off of his dad in sharp waves.

“Get going! Down the stairs,” Don says. 

_Is this really Donovan Mark Pines?_ Dipper thinks. _What the actual fuck?_

“What the hell, Dad!?” Dipper snaps. “What the - _what are you doing?”_

Dipper’s vision clears, just enough for him to look down on his dad’s thunderous expression; this isn’t a joke. What -

 _the frying pan._ His dad hates him - Dipper only remembers vague dislike, disappointment, and love caught between the two, but never hate. 

“I’m trying to get your ass moving,” Don says. “Down the stairs, now.”

“What - what are you -”

Don blows out an angry breath, and then grabs Dipper’s shoulder and shoves him at the stairs.

Dipper very nearly falls down them, just barely managing to catch himself with the railing - it wrenches his shoulder out with a snap. “Oh my - _fuck_ \- what the hell!?”

“Make it snappy,” his dad hisses. “Go! Now!”

It takes some coaxing to get his legs to function properly, but he eventually tumbles down the stairs with the grace of a baby giraffe on ice skates.

His dad snatches his wrist and drags him to the door, while Dipper yelps, “Jesus, Dad!”

Don swings the door open with a huff, and he throws Dipper outside and locks the door behind them. “I know you called your bastard uncle, I know you did, and if you think he’s going to ‘save’ you - you’re wrong. You’re dead fuckin’ wrong.”

“What!?” Dipper asks. “What the hell - why the fuck did you drag me outside to yell at me? What’s - what’s wrong with you?”

His dad looks awful. Thick bags drag his brown eyes down, and the skin around his eyes is red and puffy. His eyes have yellowed with jaundice, why, Dipper’s not sure. He’s thinned out in the weeks after his mother’s death, and now, he looks like a shadow of the man he used to be.

“Dad?” Dipper breathes. “What happened to you?”

“You,” his dad spits. “I don’t understand you - I never have. You fuck with my reputation one day, you act concerned the next, you curse at me and show me the respect of dirt and then you - then you pull this, like it’s somehow gonna make it all okay.

“Guess what, Dipper Pines? Guess what? It doesn’t! You don’t get to - you don’t get to be my son whenever you want! I don’t understand you. I don’t,” Don shouts.

Dipper flinches. “I don’t - I don’t remember doing anything -”

“You just trot downstairs, you know, you just frolic down those damn steps covered in my wife’s blood - my wife. My soulmate. You don’t - you don’t get that right.”

Dipper sighs. “Dad, look -”

“Don’t play holier-than-thou!” his dad shouts, and Dipper quickly rams his mouth shut, because he’s seeing his dad’s hands shaking and his eyes bulging and Dipper’s starting to get the feeling that this isn’t about him. “Don’t play God almighty, cocky, confident, you don’t even believe - you’re going straight to hell, you hear me, for what you did to my wife -”

Dipper raises his hands placatingly. “She’s your wife, and my mom. I would never do that to her.”

“Sounds like the words of a liar,” Don said. “I’m tellin’ the police. Today. These murders - they’re all you, I know it is, it’s gotta be -”

Dipper felt viral panic tickle his spine - pain, like getting slammed against walls, was usually enough to re-focus him. But not this kind of pain. This kind of pain is where his anxiety takes its thick roots and digs deep. “Dad - it’s not - you can’t do that, Dad, because it’s _not me.”_

“You don’t see what I see!” Don shrieked, and suddenly something flashy was whipping out of his belt and - holy god.

A knife - it was a _knife_. Jesus Christ, his dad had just _pulled a knife on him._

Then his dad’s launching himself at Dipper’s waist, and tackling him to the ground. Dipper’s head slams against the concrete so hard that he’s barely able to deflect the knife from his gut, and it rips through the meat of his hand and ricochetes on the concrete an inch from Dipper’s cheek.

“Dad - _you need help_ -”

His dad’s bony knee crashes into his gut, and his elbow drives into Dipper’s left eye; the knife slices through Dipper’s shirt and tears a shallow gash into his side.

Dipper screams, and knees his dad straight in the groin. Dipper decides that the concussion can go fuck itself, and he slams his face into his dad’s nose. Blood spurts from the break like a fountain.

Dipper pins his dad’s right arm to the left side of his body, and flips the man onto the concrete of the carport; his dad crashes to the concrete with a _snap_ , dislocating his dominant arm. 

In the fuss, the knife had landed near Don’s left hand, and he snatched it just then and brought it swinging into Dipper’s left shoulder. 

Dipper cried out in pain, and drove his fist into Don’s gut - his dad retaliated with a stab that slammed into his rib cage with a crack.

Dipper throws himself to the side, crashing against the concrete painfully -  
And his shoulder slams into a wooden chair, and he brings it to the ground with a clatter.

Someone’s shouting, “Kid, kid! Stop -”

It doesn’t sound like Mabel, so he kicks them in the knee. 

He scrambles to his feet and grabs the desk chair with both hands, picks it up, and slams it against the ground where the stranger had been just seconds ago - damn reflexes. The two thick, heavy chair legs that hit the ground snapped off of the base with a massive _crack._

Dipper whirls around, and pounds his fist into the intruder’s solar plexus as hard as possible; it does its job. The stranger wheezes, “Damn it, why’d I ever teach you to punch?”

_Teach you. Punch._

Dipper stumbles backward. “Grunkle - Grunkle Stan? I thought - _what_ -”

_I thought you were dead, I thought you were in Gravity Falls, I thought you’d gotten into a car accident and your spine had folded in half._

“Sit down,” Stan huffs. He flops on Dipper’s bed. “I’d be proud of that punch if you weren’t hitting _me._ ”

 _I have practice hitting family members in my nightmares,_ Dipper thought.

He doesn’t sit down - he can’t. His muscles have all gone rigid. Stan’s eyebrows raise.

“You can relax whenever you want,” Stan says.

“I - I know that,” Dipper says. “What…”

“Mabel called me, last night,” he says. “Told me all about what happened to your face. I drove down, broke all the speeding laws, she met me out the door - have you seen your sister, lately? She’s exhausted.”

Dipper flinches. He _knows,_ and the idea that he might not feels like a personal jab at his brother skills. “I know,” he says.

“Worse than after… that,” Stan says. “You sure there’s not something - _bigger_ happening?”

“No,” Dipper says, with a thick, puffy throat. “She hasn’t told me anything.”

 _I don’t need the advice of a dead man,_ is in his brain before Dipper can put a cap on those bad thoughts; when the last whispery, mental word falls through his neurons, Dipper feels cold all the way in his heart.

“Ah,” Stan says. “It’s like that, huh?”

Dipper nods; the motion is jerky, like it’s being pulled with faulty cords.

“Why don’t you tell me what… all this was about?” Stan says.

“What’s ‘this’?” Dipper asks.

“Y’know,” Stan says. “The, uh, punching-me-in-the-gut.”

Dipper swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I, uh.”

“‘Uh,’ isn’t a good answer.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got,” Dipper snaps. “Take it or leave it.”

Stan sighs, and rubs his eyes. “I get you don’t wanna be pushed, kiddo. I really do. But it’s the only way I’m ever gonna get anythin’ out of you.”

“What do you want from me?” Dipper asks. “A ten-page explanation for why I do everything I do?”

“Kid -”

“We’ll start here. I sleep because homo sapiens require rest, I breathe because we also require oxygen -”

“Dipper,” Stan interrupts. “You’re deflectin’, kid. Now I _know_ somethin’s up.”

_Yeah, something’s up - I have freaky dreams where I watch people die, sometimes they actually kick it and sometimes they don’t and I don’t know why, there’s a huge monster in Piedmont and I have no fucking clue what to do or if it’s real or my imagination, my mom’s dead, my sister’s lying to me, my dad hates me, I’m probably going to get expelled within the next week, Bill Cipher still has dibs on me, I think I just had two dreams within a dream, and I watched you die in one of those dreams._

He only snorts, and says, “Right.”

“Come get some ice for your face,” Stan says, and he motions for Dipper to follow him.

Dipper blows a breath out like a buffalo, but follows him anyway.

His knee’s been acting up lately, so he descends the stairs a lot stiffer and a lot slower than usual. The ten o’clock news is playing in the livingroom, and endless repeat of, “ - rampaged through - killed - mauled - animal or sadistic serial killer - police stumped -”

“How long was I asleep?” Dipper asks.

“A whole day,” Stan says. “Not sure what happened. Couldn’t wake you up for the life of me.”

“Damn,” Dipper whistles.

“Language,” Stan says, half-heartedly.

He’d say that Mabel made a lot of money off of a swear jar if Stan wasn’t, well, Stan.

Stan leads him into the kitchen. Dipper’s heart stops when his eyes land on Ford, clad in a navy blue sweater and dark gray slacks.

Stan doesn’t know anything, so Dipper works his jaw, tries not to feel awkward around the one person who knows his biggest secret, and sits down.

Ford looks up, and something about Dipper’s eyes must plead, _don’t give me away,_ because Ford nods. He does it in that solemn, dramatic way that only Ford can accomplish. 

Dipper’s eyes dart down to the papers Ford’s leaning over, glossy crime scene photos that Dipper recognizes from his dreams. There’s a map drawn on with red sharpie - the area where Melanie died is circled, and the path of the thing’s ‘rampage’ begins in an alley and ends at Mackie’s house. Areas along the line are dotted, showing the places where someone died.

The dot at the mouth of the alley speaks to him, almost _whispering_ Silas’s name.

Why is it that he dreamed about the latest attack as it was happening, but the one with Melanie, he dreamed it _before_ it happened? And why are his strange dreams suddenly coming true?

“Here,” Stan says, handing him an icepack, well-wrapped in towels.

“Thanks,” Dipper mutters. He gently applies the ice to the throbbing, hot side of his face, and almost gasps in relief.

“I brought Ford with me, by the way,” Stan says.  
“I can see that,” Dipper replies.

“I’m glad you did,” Ford says, adjusting his glasses. “We’ve got _something_ happening here.”

“No shit,” Stan says. “And all everyone’s talkin’ about is the new Northwest deal.”

“Northwest deal?” Dipper asks. In the back of his mind, he remembers a girl he truly met inside a big, polished mansion, and how he left her there to rot.

“The Northwests are flooding their money into some Strange, Inc. place,” Stan says, shrugging. “I couldn’t care less ‘bout it. There’s somethin’ with the military, too.”

“Meanwhile, people here are getting ripped limb from limb,” Ford says. “I will never understand modern telecasting.”

Dipper’s fingers clench the ice, the phantom feeling of guilt already starting to set in. 

“You heard about the murders, right, kid?” Stan says.

He tries not to think about the night of Melanie’s murder, when he woke up in a cold sweat and snatched his stolen police scanner, tumbled down the stairs and listened to static voices and clutching his rolling stomach.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s another lie - he was never told about the murders. He’d slept through all of them. He’d somehow _known_ they were going to happen, or were happening.

“It’s something supernatural,” Ford says. 

“You think everything’s supernatural,” Stan mutters.

“It is!” Ford insists, gesturing to the stacked papers. “It has to be! Listen, Stan, we can’t just take off to Gravity Falls with the kids and -”

“What?” Dipper asks. “What’s that?”

Stan facepalms. “Ford, you’ve got _no_ tact.”

Ford blushes. “Uh, ahem. Ignore that?”

“You’re taking us to _Gravity Falls,_ ” Dipper says, slowly.

“Yes,” Stan says. “Y’can’t stay here, not with - not with your dad bein’... the way he’s bein’. I won’t stand for it.”

“You can’t exactly take us to Gravity Falls, either,” Dipper says. “We’ve got school here, we’ve got lives here -”

“Mabel’s okay with it,” Stan says.

Dipper suddenly felt like a wolf being danced around, being treated like a fragile, breakable thing until he was so frustrated that his rage leapt from his skin. “Why weren’t you going to tell me?”

“Listen, kid, we were -”

“Right,” Dipper snorts. “You haven’t got any tact, either.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “We’ve been through this once today, already. Calm down.”

 _Calm down, we’re only taking you back to the one place on Earth where you’re most likely to die,_ Dipper thinks.

“‘Kay. Fine,” Dipper says, and he slumps back in his chair, content to stew in his fury. 

Ford looks, somehow, sympathetic. “Listen, Stan… maybe we shouldn’t -”

“Shouldn’t get them out of here!?” Stan snaps. “I’m not leaving these kids here, _Stanford._ Not with Donovan bein’ as big a fuckin’ prick as he is.”

“It’s only for a few months,” Ford says.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Stan flies out of his chair, slamming his hands on the table. “Only a few months!? Do you have _any_ idea of what could happen in a few months!?”

“I do,” Ford replies, voice steadily getting colder, “but perhaps it’s not worth dragging them back to somewhere they clearly don’t want to go.”

 _“He’s abusive!”_ Stan roars.

Dipper feels a rush of panic - abusive? That’s not - that’s not right. “He’s not,” Dipper says.

Stan turns to him. “I know you can’t look at your own face, but it tells the _whole_ story. That’s _abuse._ ”

“He didn’t - I mentioned mom, and _then_ he hit me,” Dipper says. “If I’d been him, I would’ve hit me, too.”

Stan slumps back in his chair, holding his head in his hands. “Kid… it’s _never_ okay to hit your own kid. Ever.”

“I kind of _deserved_ a skillet to the face for saying that,” Dipper says. “You just - you just weren’t there.”

Ford’s face softened. “Perhaps… perhaps Gravity Falls _is_ the answer. Piedmont can wait.”

“Finally!” Stan cries, flinging his arms out in victory. “You understand what I’m saying!”

“No one is listening to me,” Dipper mutters.

“We are,” Stan says. “And what we’re hearin’ ain’t good. You can’t blame yourself for abuse.”

“You keep trying to say he’s abusive and he’s - he’s never done this before!” Dipper shouts. “It’s not like he gets drunk on Fridays and beats us -”

“Us,” Ford says, “being the operative word. Would you leave Mabel in this environment if she was the one who was hit?”

“No,” Dipper snaps. “Because she would’ve been hit for no reason. Mabel knows how to keep her mouth shut, and _I_ don’t.”

“You don’t deserve a concussion per out-of-line thing you say,” Ford says. 

“It’s not even that bad!”

“You couldn’t talk afterwards,” Stan says.

“I’m fine now,” Dipper retorts. He doesn’t remember dropping the the icepack, and he doesn’t remember standing up, but he’s now towering over the Stans’ seats.

“You’re _not_ fine -” Stan says.

“Don’t tell me what I am,” Dipper hisses. “You don’t have a _fucking_ clue.”

Ford rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “You’re being ridiculous, Dipper.”

“Cool,” Dipper says. 

“What is with your _attitude_?” Ford snaps. “We’re trying to help you!”

“I don’t need it,” Dipper snarls.

The door swings open behind him, and Dipper whirls around, half-hoping it’s a worried neighbour so he can kick their face in.

It’s Mabel; she’s dressed in thick winter clothes, and her cheeks are red from the cold air. Her eyes widen. “Uh… what’s up, guys?”

“I hadn’t realized you’d left,” Ford says.

“Weren’t you asleep, princess?” Stan asks.

Dipper doesn’t bother asking - he’s not going to get an honest answer. Apparently, no one wants to give him one.

He just turns, and stalks away.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Ford let slip. He’s pissed.”

“He’s being an idiot.”

 _Thanks,_ Dipper thinks, sarcastically, and he storms up the stairs as loudly as possible. He hopes it irritates them. 

The second he slams the door to his room shut, he’s pacing, rapidly ticking fingers off like he’s listing his problems.

He’s not sure what he’s thinking - he only knows that it melds into a leather whip that wraps around his throat, and he’s thinking, _fire_ , and he’s thinking about a lot of things all at once that he can’t handle ‘cause he’s just not strong enough -

He slams his fist into the drywall so hard it crumples under his fist, leaving a ragged, gaping hole behind. 

_There’s another thing you broke,_ he thinks, viciously. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, clenching his aching fist.

His door swings open. “Dipper, are you - o… kay? What happened in here?”

Dipper suddenly remembers the broken chair, the messed-up and torn-off sheets, his cluttered desk, and, coupled with the brand new hole in the wall, he realizes that his room must look crazy.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging.

Mabel’s eyes flick from his bruised knuckles to the hole in the wall. “Uh - Dipper?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you punch the wall?”

“I don’t like the color,” Dipper says, offering her a sarcastic half-smile. 

Mabel snorts. “Ah, yes, navy blue. The same color of your pants. How hideous.”

Dipper leans down to look at his pants; they are, indeed, the color of the night sky. (He also loves these pants, because they’re decorated with the constellations and the Big Dipper happens to be plastered over the crotch, which was honestly hilarious for a lot of reasons.)

“I, uh,” Dipper stutters. “I don’t like these either!”

“You love those pants,” Mabel says.

“No - No - I - oh, you shut up,” Dipper says.

“Seriously, bro-bro, I want to know what just happened,” Mabel says.

Dipper shakes his head. “It’s over. It’s fine.”

“You keep saying those words, and those words keep not making sense,” Mabel says. “You’re not fine.”

“What is with people telling me that today?” Dipper says. “Tonight, whatever.”

“Because…” Mabel bit her lip. “We’re just worried, is all.”

“They should be worrying about you. You’re the one lying and sneaking out,” Dipper mutters.

Mabel recoils, a nasty expression contorting her features. “Dipper, I didn’t come in here so you could throw my good intentions in my face.”

Dipper groans, putting his head into his hands. “That was a dick move. That was a really dick move. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted, but watch that attitude,” Mabel says. “Let’s sit.”

Dipper throws himself on his bed, and the shitty springs squeak in protest. 

Mabel follows suit, but when she sits down, she makes a face like she’s just eaten a lemon. “God, your mattress is awful. Jesus. How do you sleep on this?”

“Patience and three comforters,” Dipper responds.

Mabel nods. “Now, uh… what’s got you so worked up about going back to Gravity Falls? I mean, I was thinking, maybe we could… do a little monster hunting,” she does a little jig, a quick jab-and-punch. “Like we used to.”

 _She’s not the only one keeping secrets,_ Dipper thinks. _Maybe… maybe an olive branch is in order._

Maybe he should just start being a little more honest.

He swallows hard. “This is gonna sound dumb.”

Mabel knows that that’s basically his, ‘I’m-being-really-serious-please-don’t-make-fun-of-me,’ phrase, so her hand reaches for his and clasps it. “Never.”

Dipper blinks, overcome with an emotion he can’t begin to name, and then he says, “I’ve, uh… I’m scared.”

He’s suddenly hit with how _true_ it is - he’s mortally terrified to go back to Gravity Falls. He doesn’t want to see another Weirdmageddon, doesn’t want to start the apocalypse all over again, he loves the people there and he loves the mysteries; he loves the creatures in the woods, but he doesn’t like the demon that sleuths through heads like sifting through sand. 

He’s scared to die. He’s scared to live. He’s scared to leave Mabel alone, and he’s scared he might have to if he goes to Gravity Falls; instead of being a wolf that’s being danced around, he’s a wolf being backed in a corner and lashing out in fear.

“Aw, Dipper,” Mabel says, resting her head on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I am, too, I’m friggin’ terrified - but we have to face this fear someday, Dippin’ Diddles. We’ve got each other, y’know? And we can get through anything.”

Dipper smiles, tiny and tight, but a smile nonetheless. “I do miss the trees.”

“You wax poetic about those trees,” Mabel says. “I don’t think there’s a day that goes by where you don’t miss being all nature-guy.”

“I think you’d be right,” Dipper chuckles.

“At least, for once, it might be warmer in Oregon,” Mabel says. “I swear to Scratch n’Sniff Incorporated, this winter is freezing.”

“We’re like _Ice Age._ Maybe if we dig underground we’ll find beautiful tropics and dinosaurs,” Dipper says.

Mabel’s eyes snapped open. “Dipper - oh my god - _Dipper._ The dinosaurs in Gravity Falls are _underground._ ”

Dipper sat up. “Are you fucking kidding me? We lived _Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs_ and we didn’t even fuckin’ notice?”

Mabel collapses in a fit of wheezing laughter. “I - cannot - believe -”

“Well, why don’t we just make all of the dinosaur movies real,” Dipper says. “Let’s see if Grunkle Stan would let us open a Jurassic Park.”

“You’re forgetting _Land Before Time _,” Mabel says.__

__“You think we can pass of our old friend the pterosaur as a dragon?” Dipper asks. “We could add _How to Train Your Dragon._ ”_ _

__They both stopped, and turned to each other, the same exact excited expression on their face._ _

__“Are you thinking dragon hunting?” Dipper asks._ _

__“I’m thinkin’ dragon hunting, bro,” Mabel says._ _

__“If dragons don’t exist I’m punching existence in the face,” Dipper says._ _

__“What do we get to name them?” Mabel asks. “Hmm…. dragon names….”_ _

__“Ahem - ack, cough - Han Solo - cough, ack, ack,” Dipper coughs. “Cold’s going around, sorry -”_ _

__Mabel levels a deadpan glare at him. “When will you -”_ _

__“Never,” Dipper says._ _

__“Alright,” Mabel sighs. “We can name the dragon Han Solo.”_ _

__Dipper squishes her in a hug. “On behalf of Star Wars fans everywhere, I thank you.”_ _

__Mabel slaps his head lightly. “No, no, get the nerd away from me -”_ _

__Dipper stands up, hefting Mabel with him. “I’m using the force on you.”_ _

__“You’re _physically lifting me_ , oh god, I don’t trust your noodle arms -” Mabel shrieks, and she hooks a leg behind Dipper’s bum knee and pulls, sending them crashing back on Dipper’s bed._ _

__Mabel’s elbow lands deep in his stomach. “H-holy,” Dipper whuffs. “You’re _heavy._ ” _ _

__Mabel responds by sprawling over him. “Love me, Dipper.”_ _

__“You’re crushing my internal organs.”_ _

__Mabel shifts into a comfortable position, so she’s laying on her belly over Dipper’s belly. “If those organs can’t take the heat, they should get out of the kitchen.”_ _

__“Oh, yeah, I’m gonna rip my fuckin’ organs out. Screw you, organs, you’re not metal enough,” Dipper says._ _

__Mabel giggles, and it’s a strange feeling, because Mabel laughs with her stomach and it feels weird when her stomach is crushing his. “But… Dipper, are you sure you’re okay with this?”_ _

__Dipper’s fingers bluntly scrabble against the material of the un-sheeted mattress, feeling the slick pattern of the threads with dull nails. There something itching in his tendons - a primal fear, maybe, or the sweet knowledge that he’s ready for what’s coming, or the fact that he’s lying to himself._ _

__“Define ‘okay,’” Dipper says, somewhat weakly._ _

__“You’re ready to try it,” Mabel says._ _

__“Then I’m okay with it,” Dipper says. “But, you’ve gotta promise me something.”_ _

__“Anything,” Mabel says._ _

__Dipper’s glad Mabel’s not facing him - if his eyes met hers, his Big, Bad, Fearsome Secret would come spilling out. The dream with the dead people, the car crash he heard and waking up thinking Stan was dead would fall out of his mouth faster than a rushing riptide._ _

__“If anything happens,” Dipper says, “to me, you’ve gotta promise that you won’t do anything stupid.”_ _

__“Dipper, why do you think something’s gonna happen to you?” Mabel asks._ _

___I don’t think - I know._ _ _

__“It’s not that,” Dipper lies. “It’s that I won’t be there to help you if something happens to me, and that’s - that’s what I really worry about. I don’t wanna leave you alone.”_ _

___I’m so sorry, Mabel._ _ _

__“Alright,” Mabel says. “I promise. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”_ _

__“Oh, don’t promise that,” Dipper says. “I’m an idiot. Don’t promise by me.”_ _

__“Oh my gosh, Dipper, you’re so particular,” Mabel says. “But, okay. I promise that I won’t do anything stupid.”_ _

__“And, y’know, stupid is everything that hurts you,” Dipper says. “Don’t… don’t screw yourself over for me.”_ _

__“Someone’s feeling deep,” Mabel says._ _

__Dipper chuckles, and it rattles around his chest like shards of broken glass in a cup. “Yeah.”_ _

__“If it makes you feel better, I promise,” Mabel says. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while Mabel’s around!”_ _

__“You’ve got my back,” Dipper says._ _

__“Always.”_ _

__Oh, God. What was he doing? He couldn’t - _shouldn’t_ \- lie to his sister, not about this. He’s been living on borrowed time for five years, and he’s about to go back to the place that started it all - his chance of dying just increased exponentially. And maybe it wouldn’t even be death, maybe it would be eternal torture and Mabel would be forced to live forever because of a stupid loophole -_ _

___fuck._ _ _

__Mabel’s head snaps up. “Dad’s home.”_ _

__“What?” Dipper asks._ _

__“Dad left right after he - uh, that - and he hasn’t been back since. He just pulled up,” Mabel says. “He doesn’t know the Grunks are in the house.”_ _

__“I can’t take this seriously when you word it like that,” Dipper says._ _

__“It’s about to be a bloodbath,” Mabel says. “Dipper, you do not - Grunkle Stan is ready to _kill_ someone.”_ _

__“I still don’t understand why this is such a big deal to everyone,” Dipper says. “I mean - he hit me once because I was out of line, sure. Big deal. He hates me, he probably has for a while, big whoop.”_ _

__Mabel rolls off of him, hits the floor, and then jumps up with the energy of a thousand suns. “Dipper Pines, if I ever hear those words come out of your mouth again, I’m going to chain you to a radiator. Put a pin in this conversation, because we’re coming back to it.”_ _

__“O...kay?”_ _

__Mabel charges down the stairs at the same moment loud, angry voices break out from below._ _

__Dipper sighs. Another day, another -_ _

___“You called the damn police!?”_ _ _

__Fuck._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feelin' on this one? 
> 
> You guys got a free rap. I read that first paragraph like I'm rapping it. It's so much fun and now I can't take it seriously.
> 
> And, yes, we're starting to set up some tension [rubs hands together] Can't wait to see where this goes! ;)


	10. we're all hungry for the right reasons, and we all eat meat with the right seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for abuse talk and neglect talk, and if you don't like Mabel being sad, I'm sorry, but if you like old men acting like children, hooray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter in Docs is, "the one where Ford takes his true place in the universe and stays on the floor the whole time," which I think you should know.

Mabel’s hands clench the sleeves of her sweater - this one is haggard at the edges. It used to be her mother’s. She wears it like battle armor, drawing it tight in her fingers like it’s about to save her life.

She charges down the stairs and into the kitchen like a bat out of hell; her stomps shake the house, and everyone’s staring at the doorway when she appears in it.

‘Everyone,’ is Grunkle Stan, red-faced with white-knuckled fists, and police officer, who looks like he’s had the worst day of his life, a suited, blond man with a deadpan stare, and her dad.

Her eyes land on her dad, raking over him; the whites of his eyes are yellowed, and so are his teeth, and so is his skin, and so are the tips of his nails. It’s like someone put an extra layer of mustard yellow over her dad’s color scheme, a gradient of sickness that’s as pungent as the high-octane tang of alcohol. His hair’s falling out, his clothes are dishevelled, it’s a far shout from the man who took a lot of pride in his appearance. (And just about everything else he did.)

She can see it on Stan’s face - he’s shocked at what Don’s become. So is Mabel. 

They’re all quiet long enough that Dipper, who trailed behind her, comes up by her side. He’s rigid and stiff, and she can feel his panic. _Panic?_

“So,” Mabel says, with a dusty throat, “what’s this about cops?”

Grunkle Stan leaps on the opening. “ _Donovan_ brought the cops here.”

His fingers dance along the table, tapping an unfamiliar pattern - Mabel knows she’s supposed to understand something about the gesture, but it’s too vague.

The suit’s eyes are drawn to the movement, too. “Mr. Pines called in a tip. For the investigation.”

“Y’might wanna specify _which_ Mr. Pines you’re talkin’ to, here,” Stan says. “There’s three of ‘em.”  
“Me, you daft old fool,” Don snaps. His voice sounds like gravel over eggshells.

“Who the hell you callin’ _daft,_ ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t me, ‘cause I got enough sense to know that you don’t _hit children -”_

 _“What_ investigation?” Mabel interrupts. She’s channeling as much as she can remember of Pacifica Northwest’s ultimate holier-than-thou attitude, because she’s never met another person who’s made everyone as small as Pacifica has. She’s got a bad feeling, and she needs a weapon, and words are the only ones she’s got - even if they aren’t her forte. So channel she does.

“Don’t tell me, miss, that you’ve missed the recent murders,” the police officer - his nametag reads Wright - says. “Because I _know_ you haven’t.”

“She hasn’t,” Dipper says. It’s slow and cold.

Officer Wright’s eyes flash to him, narrowing in hate - realization smacks Mabel in the face. Melanie’s dad was a police officer, which means…

Oh, _ouchie._

“Good for you, ma’am,” Wright replies, tartly. “But we’re not here to fill you in. We’re here to make an arrest.”

“Not yet, we’re not,” the suit snaps. “What’s this I hear about hitting children?”

“Wonderful of you to ask, agent… officer… guy,” Stan says. “That man - Donovan Mark Pines, that sad sack of shit right there, can’t miss him - hit his son with an iron skillet.”

“You ain’t got shit, you -” Don snarls, but he’s cut off by the suit raising his hand.

The agent-slash-officer-slash-human-slash-being glances at Dipper’s face, which is telling enough; the whole side of his face is a thick, black-and-purple mess, one eye nearly swollen shut and his hairline crusted with uncleaned blood where a sharp protrusion on the pan caught it.

It makes Mabel sick to look at it, but it also makes her sad, in a way. 

“I’d call that ‘shit,’ Mr. Pines. If ‘shit,’ means evidence,” he says, coolly.

Stan sticks his tongue at Don. “Eat shit, you abusive bastard.”

_Oh, no, Dipper, don’t do it -_

“It was my fault, okay?” Dipper says. “I mentioned something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

 _Are you mcfreakin’ kidding me,_ Mabel thinks.

Don points at his son, and says, “That’s right! He shouldn’t have done it. It _is_ his fault. Apology accepted, son.”

“Did you just _confess?”_ Mabel asks. “‘Cause, y’know, I just heard a big, fat, sweet confession dumped right there.”

Everyone looks a little startled.

Don looks reproachful. “I, uh, um -”

“Well, at least the bruising isn’t from a murder victim defending themselves,” Wright mutters.

“Wait - _murder_ victim? You’re here because you seriously think I’m a _murderer?”_ Dipper says, incredulous.

“Oh my great-golly-gosh, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mabel says. “Seriously. In all seriousness! Dipper’s a freakin’ _sweetheart._ He adopted a cat off of the street and named him Han Solo. Unfortunately, Han Solo had cancer… but, that’s not the point of the story!”

“Kid, you named your cat _Han Solo?”_ Grunkle Stan asks.

“I was _fifteen_ and _The Force Awakens_ just came out, okay?” Dipper says - his voice has jumped up a pitch defensively.

Mabel grins, wickedly. “And, officers, he taught all of the neighborhood kids how to play soccer! He _loves_ kids. And he volunteers with me at the soup kitchen!”

Dipper leans against the wall and groans. “My head hurts too much for this.”

“He used to work at my shop for free! As charity! A favor for his dear, old, great uncle Stan,” Grunkle Stan says. “He also sings in the shower.”

“Correction: he sings _BABBA_ in the shower,” Mabel says. “And Marina and the Diamonds. He’s a primadonna girl.”

Wright is looking between them, annoyed. “Listen, I don’t care. We have sufficient evidence to warrant -”

“When we were kids, and I had to have my hair shaved off because I got gum stuck in it, he shaved his off, too,” Mabel interrupts. “And when my pet pig disappeared, he rallied a search party to go save my Waddles! And when our friend, Soos, didn’t want to celebrate his birthday, he helped me throw the best birthday ever -”

“She planned it,” Dipper argues, weakly.

“... Are you trying to manipulate us into not arresting this man by citing good things about him?” Wright asks.

“... Uh… maybe,” Stan says. “But you can’t tell me it’s not working, ‘cause Suit over there is laughing his ass off!”

“Agent Trigger, Mr. Pines,” Trigger says, with a brilliant smile. “And this is pretty amusing.”

Trigger. _Trigger._

_The guy whose memory they wiped._

If any of the stress shows on Mabel’s face, she tries to hide it with a broad smile. “Trigger is the best agent name _ever!_ If there were three of you, one could be named ‘pull,’ and the other could be, ‘the,’ and you guys could could be squad _goals._ Pull, The, Trigger! Or, The, Trigger, Pull, or Pull, Trigger, The, or -”

“I think we get it,” Dipper says. 

Trigger doesn’t seem to mind her rambling much at all. “That’s a good idea, I’ll have to keep it in mind. For now, Officer Wright, that I refuse to detain this man on charge of being a threat to society.”

“A threat to society?” Dipper whistles. “Jeeze. _Jeeze.”_

“How in the name of hell do you refuse an arrest warrant?” Don snaps.

“There isn’t one,” Trigger says.

“Whaddya mean, there ain’t an arrest warrant? You have t’have one to make an arrest, right?” Stan says.

“Well,” Trigger says, tugging at his collar, “my… department has certain… privileges.”

“You can rush-order arrests,” Dipper states. “Well, y’know, these kinds of arrests, where you go into the house and you… you get what I mean.”

Trigger nods. “Well, essentially. It can only happen when we’re involved, specifically.”

“Enough!” Donovan shouts. “You mean you’re really _not_ going to arrest him!?”  
Trigger looks affronted. “Well, no, Mr. Pines, we can’t arrest him with little to no evidence -”

“He’s a troublemaker! He’s always pickin’ fuckin’ fights, ruining my life. Gives me a bad name. And he hates these people! He hates them! I know he does!”

“You _shut the fuck up_ about my _brother_ -” Mabel snarls, and she’s ready to charge forward but Dipper’s arm hooks around her waist.

“Mabel, calm down, it’s okay -”

 _“Don’t you tell me it’s okay!”_ she hisses, wheeling on Dipper. “You do _not_ deserve this, do you understand me? He doesn’t get to say this to you - I don’t care if he a father or not, _he doesn’t get that right - “_

“Son, you leave your sister alone -”

Mabel whips back to her dad, raising her finger to point at him. “And _why_ is it always about him? Why is he doing everything wrong to you when I can’t do anything wrong? And how about, _you’re_ the only one who’s doing _anything_ wrong?”

 _If he listens to me, I can fix this,_ Mabel thinks. _He just has to listen._

Don recoils. “Honey, I know it’s hard to accept -”

“Don’t you ‘honey,’ me! Do you know how hypocritical you sound? _Do you?_ Dipper walks on eggshells around you for _years,_ and me? Me? You didn’t even care enough to _yell_ at me!” Mabel shouts. “Don’t talk to me about _hard to accept.”_

“I care about you!” Don argues. “You - you were just - you were always perfect! You got your mom’s genes -”

“I’m _tired_ of people trying to say that this house was _perfect_ before she died!” Mabel screams. “It wasn’t! She was never here, and even when she was, she was usually _fucking working_ because she _had_ to be a fancy, lovely, awesome criminal investigator with a bunch of creepy pictures on her wall that used to scare me when I was nine! She had to be one of the most sought-after investigators on the west coast instead of being a mom! You think she taught me how to knit, or took me to meet the princesses at Disney World, or hosted my dumb preteen sleepovers or bought me my first bra or - or - or _anything?”_

Mabel pretends not to notice the tears in her eyes. “She _left us here._ She wasn’t… she wasn’t freakin’ perfect. She’s not some holy figure, or anything.”

Donovan’s face crumples. “Oh, Mabel, sweetie… my little girl…”

She wants to throw up. Why is she the ‘sweetie,’ the ‘little girl,’ even after she’d insulted her own mother - Dipper so much as brings her up and he gets a frying pan to the face, and Mabel? She gets… crying eyes and promises the second she finally says what’s on her mind?

And Mabel still loves her dad, even through his faults, and the soft tone to his voice - for once in her life, not distant, not unaccepting, ready to treat her as a daughter and not a dumb little girl - has her heart soaring.

She’s so confused. She doesn’t understand it - the sister in her is screaming, “Spit in his face!” and the daughter in her is screaming, “Hug his face!” and she doesn’t know which one’s right, or if either of them are right, or - or -

Suddenly, she’s being crushed in her dad’s powerful hug - he smells like sweat and alcohol and cigarettes, but it’s okay, because she can count the hugs she’s gotten from her dad on one hand. 

“I never meant this,” he whispers.

“Get away from her,” Dipper growls.

Mabel steps back, turning to look at Dipper, who’s bypassed ‘reasonable anger,’ and took a swing into, ‘hi, my facial expression is a metaphor for violence,’ in the three seconds she was in her dad’s arms.

“What…?” she asks. 

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” Dipper says.

God-freakin-dang-it-all, why does this have to be so _complicated?_ Why can’t it be _simple,_ like when she was a kid?

“I don’t want him to hurt _you,”_ she says. “Just… I’ll talk him down. Get him to relax on you. Just let me fix - ”

“Are you tryin’ to get between me and my daughter?” Don growls - he’s snapped from ‘loving father,’ to ‘street rat brawler.’

“Yes,” Dipper says. “I don’t trust you.”  
Mabel winces - _really, Dipper? You couldn’t have a little more tact?_

“Who the hell are _you_ to decide who she gets to love, you insolent -”

“Sir!” Wright shouts. “That’s enough!”

Don lunges for Dipper, but a dark-suited blur slams him into the wall with the exact force of a freight train; it takes her a few seconds to realize that the blur is actually Stan.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. “Leave him alone!” 

Stan has Don by the hair, his neck pulled back, ready to slam his face into the wall, when she says it. Stan stops entirely, looking at Mabel with a perplexed expression. “He just _attacked_ Dipper!”

“That doesn’t mean slamming his face into a wall is okay!” Mabel screams. She’s falling apart. This is it - this is what tears her apart, when there’s two reactions and they’re _both valid,_ and she has no idea which one is the more moral choice.

“Sir, please step aside,” Trigger says. “Allow the trained officers to take care of this.”

Stan drops his hold on Donovan. Her dad slumps to the ground, groaning. “Fuck,” Stan grumbles. “Fuckin’ officers.”

 _They’re going to arrest him,_ Mabel thinks. _They’re taking my dad away._

“Put your hands behind your back, Mr. Pines,” Trigger says.

“Y-you can’t arrest him,” Dipper says. “He didn’t -”

“ - do anything?” Grunkle Stan interrupts. “He tried to hit you, kiddo. That’s not okay. He is not allowed to assault his own kid.”

“The old man has it straight,” Trigger says, to the backdrop of Officer Wright reading Don his rights.

“But,” Dipper says. Nothing follows it. His potential argument falls flat; he has no defense for his father.

Mabel’s turn.

“You can’t take our dad,” Mabel says. “He’s - he’s - he’s not the best, and it’s never okay to hit your kid, but he can change! We can give him a second chance - that’s all he needs!”

“It was my fault, anyway,” Dipper mutters. “I got us into this mess.”

 _We’re having a talk about that later, bro-bro,_ she thinks.

“No,” Stan growls. “I had enough of your brother earlier, and he’s getting arrested, and that’s final.”

“Oh, it was never up to contest,” Trigger says. “Anyone who tries to get their flesh-and-blood arrested wrongly is not fit to be a parent.”

“Come on!” Mabel pleads. “Have a little heart - please? We’ve got - we’ve got one parent left. You can’t just… you can’t just take our dad away!”

Trigger’s face softens. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I really am. But, this has to be done. And you, young man, I thought you didn’t trust him?”

Dipper flinches. “I - I don’t know.”

“Don’t pressure him,” Stan says. “Leave him alone. The kid hasn’t had enough time to process everything that’s been happening.”

“You don’t know that,” Dipper snaps, in regular, Dipper fashion.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Stan says.

“Listen,” Mabel says. “Give us a week! One week. We’ll fix him. And then, you can come back, do the interview shi-ding-le-ma-bobber, and then you’ll see for yourselves that he just needed a second chance, and everyone will be happy!”

“No,” Trigger says, wringing his fingers around the chain of Don’s handcuffs. “That’s final. Stop pleading and recognize that this is for the best.”

Mabel’s brows pinch together. “The best? You think ripping a family apart is _for the best?”_

“Do you think child abuse is for the best?” Trigger asks. “Let’s take him away.”

“Gladly,” Wright says, and he flashes a final look at Dipper before he ducks out of the door.

“You can’t do this to me!” Don keens, spittle flying from his mouth. “Not this! Not fuckin’ this! I don’t deserve this - Mabel, honey, sweetie, you know I can change - I can change! I’ll do whatever you want!”

Mabel watches, pressed against Dipper’s side, as they drag her father away while he begs her name.

She feels robbed, in all honesty; she may have never relied on her dad, but… she just got the chance to. She just opened up to him for the first time, and he - he _accepted_ it. He loved her, he validated her, and she watched him as he screamed and begged and pleaded for mercy as they dragged him to jail anyway - what happens now? Do they catalog Dipper’s injuries and testify in court? 

What is even _happening_ anymore? She’s so tired of being powerless to the whims of everyone else. She wants to be _powerful._ In charge. 

“That’s enough drama for an hour,” Stan says, and he shuts the door, bolting it. “Ford, you can get out from under the table.”

“Finally!” Ford cries, and he spills out on to the floor, wheezing. “I don’t think I’ll ever move again. My back is stiffer than this floor, and my knees… by mercy, my _knees.”_

“Alright, you two, sit on down and I’ll whip up some grub real fast,” Stan says. “You two need food.”

He steps over Ford, and opens the refrigerator, which bumps into Ford’s boot.

“Stanley,” Ford whines. “Help me up.”

“And throw out _my_ back? You’re fresh out of luck, sucker.”

“Stanley, you _bastard.”_

Mabel chuckles, half-heartedly sliding into a chair beside Dipper. “Get wrecked, Ford-o,” she says. It lacks her usual charm.

“Mabel, are you, perchance, missing nail polish? I found a nice tube of a peach-ish color beneath the table -”

Stan leans down, and inspects the tube. “That’s orange, you twat.”

 _“You’re_ a twat,” Ford counters. 

“Twat is too fancy for me,” Stan says. “S’more like… street rat.”

“That’s _Aladdin,_ Grunkle Stan,” Mabel giggles. 

“Poindexter can make me a magic carpet,” Stan says.

Ford shoots up off of the floor, yelling, “I actually happen to have one -” his back, however, cracks loudly, and he crumples back down, moaning, _“Stanley.”_

Grunkle Stan’s grinning like a maniac; Mabel feels a brightness swell in her chest, seeing the two of them acting like… well, siblings. She’s glad to see that time hasn’t ravaged one thing. And, to think, it was all because Grunkle Stan refused to give up on his family -

just the opposite of how Mabel just gave up on her dad.

She’s _awful._

“There’s something I need to do,” Mabel says. “Where are my keys?”

“Honey,” Stan says. “It’s nearly eleven thirty, I think it’s time you -”

“Just real quick! I promise it won’t take long - I just have to do it,” she says.

“I blocked you in,” Stan says.

“Can I borrow your car?” Mabel asks. 

Dipper startles. “No! Um, no, don’t - you don’t want to take Stan’s car.”

Stan looks at Dipper, curious. “Why… why wouldn’t she want too?”

“It smells like a minimal dosage of cyanide, for one,” Ford says, from his place on the floor. “And your tires have no traction!”

“Um… nevermind,” Dipper says. “I’ll… I’ll drive you.”

“What do you have against the Stanley Mobile?” Stan asks.

“He’s being picky, just roll with it,” Mabel says. “Are you going in pajamas?”

“I’m not leaving the car,” Dipper says, standing up. “You underestimate my aptitude for laziness.”

“You got pneumonia from studying,” Mabel says. “You are not lazy.”

“Oh my God - what is with you and remembering everything I did when I was younger today?” Dipper says. “Just - let’s go.”

“Pneumonia?” Stan snaps. “Why wasn’t I told about the pneumonia? And how do you get _pneumonia_ from books -”

“It happened to me in college,” Ford says. 

“Shush, Floord,” Stan says.

Mabel snags Stan’s keys from the counter and tosses them to Dipper. “Adios, muchachas!”

“We’ll be back,” Dipper calls, and he holds the door open for Mabel to walk through.

When they’re both safely ensconced in the frigid, dark air, Dipper says, “I know you probably don’t want me going. But, uh, there’s… ice on the roads.”

He’s rubbing his bare arms - he’s only wearing a t-shirt. “Ooh, you should’ve gotten your coat.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m an idiot.”

“And I can see through your excuses like glass, brotato, brotahto. I don’t mind you driving me,” Mabel says, sliding into the passenger seat. “Oh, man, this car…”

“Old as shit,” Dipper says. “I hope he has some fuckin’ heat, ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s dead to me. Dead to me.”

Mabel chuckles. “Let the engine warm up first.”

Dipper starts the car with a roar, and the two of them sit in the almost-silence of the radio static.

It’s peaceful, for the first time in weeks. She feels more at ease here, in the freezing cold, in a smelly car, but with her brother by her side than anywhere else in the world. She’s content to wait.

Her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror, and she inspects it; she’s got the same high cheekbones coupled with big cheeks, the same big lips and tanned skin, the same rounded nose with freckles dusted across it and the familiar big green eyes with dark eyelashes and thick brows. She’s a Pines through-and-through, from her broad shoulders and tall stature to her cut jawline, and she can’t leave a Pines behind.

(she ignores the red-rimmed eyes, the bloodshot sclera, the tear stains and the frazzled curls on her head. She ignores them with a passion.)

“You ready?” Dipper asks. She thinks he might have been watching her, too. Gauging her. Trying to understand exactly what she’s doing so she doesn’t have to tell him.

(another thing she ignores - the way she can’t see Dipper’s Pines-esque features because of the huge bruise that has his face scrambled like eggs.)

“To the cemetery,” Mabel says.

The drive is similarly quiet - Dipper’s taking it slow. He might really be scared of ice, or he might be dedicated to his excuse - whichever one it may be, Mabel doesn’t know. 

Halfway there, Dipper says, “Look, Mabel… a lot just happened in a really short time.”

“This is going to be dramatic,” Mabel says. 

“Shut up,” Dipper chuckles. “But, yeah. A lot’s happening, and there’s still a lot that’s probably going to happen before this is all done with. Whatever’s going on with you, you can tell me about when you’re ready, if you ever want to tell me about it. I’m just… worried about you. That’s all.”

“There’s no need!” Mabel says. “Lebam has got this covered!”

“I know you’ve got it covered, Mabes,” Dipper says. “You always do. But, y’know, I _am_ here for a reason, and helping you out is reason enough, no matter what.”

“... Thanks, Dipper,” she says. 

“No need to thank me,” Dipper says. 

They pull into the cemetery, and Mabel ducks out of the car, and it’s easier to move when she knows that Dipper doesn’t hold the lying against her.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says. “Then… maybe… milkshakes?”

Dipper grins - well, as well as he can. “You’re on.”

“You’re paying,” she says.

“I should’ve guessed.”

Mabel cackles, and as she heads off into the night, she wonders how incredible it is that she can have such a bright smile on her face one second and then be stone-cold the next.

It doesn’t take long to get to Marcella’s grave - she’s been here in the dark before, back when Cali actually felt like _Cali_ and not a freezer.

The ghost is already there, faintly glowing, nightgown billowing this way and that. She’s sitting, criss-crossed, in front of her own gravestone, beneath the stone angel with its wings spread wide.

“You look tired, honey,” is the first thing she says. She’s calm, smooth, like the sea - untamed power in a bowl.

“That’s pretty accurate,” Mabel says. She feels tired, but not from a lack of rest; she’s tired of being a piece of paper in a hurricane. “Let’s make a deal.”

The words are hard, determined. Confident. She wants control, she knows that down to her marrow, and she’s ready to get it - with a side of mercy.

Marcella’s golden hazel eyes, previously closed, snap open. “A deal?”

“A deal,” Mabel replies, nodding. Her hair slips over her shoulders as she does, the dark curls tumbling about.

“Name your terms,” Marcella says, folding her hands. Her eyes are knowing. “I’ll pull all of the spectral strings I can.”

“If - and only if - you can wipe my dad’s arrest from memory and get him out of jail, I’ll join you,” Mabel says. “You get him out of jail, nobody - except me and you - remembers he was ever arrested.”

“That’s an interesting proposition,” Marcella hums. Her fingers twitch where they’re interlocked, and her lips pull into a wan, almost smug smile.

“Can you do it or not?” Mabel demands. Her fingers, tapping against her jeans, are getting more frantic, more frayed at the edges and desperate.

“Why do you want him back in the first place?”

“Because I’m not leaving my family behind,” Mabel says, like it’s the most simple thing in existence, something truly undeniable and heartfelt that is wrapped inside the souls of everyone. 

“That’s honorable. Noble, even. You’re a good person, Mabel,” Marcella says, and she sounds like sugar, or maybe syrup, because the words slip into Mabel’s brain slowly.

Mabel blinks. “I thought for sure you were going to say that I’m bonkers.”

“No, I think you know exactly what you’re doing, and I think it’s a great thing,” Marcella says. “You the heart of a lion. I raised you well.”

“... Thank you?” Mabel says.

“I’ll take those terms,” Marcella says. “Do you, Mabel Pines, agree to take me as your teacher and do as I, your teacher, instruct you to no matter what?”

Mabel bites her lip. “I do.”

“Then I agree to your terms fully,” Marcella says. 

Marcella holds out her hand, which glimmers with ethereal power. “Shake on it,” she says, and it’s deeper, more complex, like two voices speaking with the same tongue.

Mabel grabs her hand before she can back out, and suddenly - _suddenly_ -

an unnameable thing is rushing through her, her veins, her nerves, taking her over until everything is numb and dark - she might be dead, but no one’s listening -

_There’s no one listening - watch your back watchyourback -_

_we are either WOLVES or SHEEP, and if we are WOLVES, then we are either the strongest of all WOLVES or we dqg kh yrzhg qhyhu wr kxuw dqrwkhu zroi, onceiru wkh zroyhv kdg pyouredgh klp ulfk. exw iru doo l wdon ri zroyhv, qrw doo dsha suhgdwruv duh zromineyhv, dqg vrphthereswlphv, wkh zrunovw ri hp wxuq rxw rgoingxw wr eh kxpbackdq - zh'uh doo kxqjub iru wkh uljkw uhdvrqv -_

and then there’s an arm on her shoulder, shaking her awake, and she’s warm all over and less tired.

“Mabel,” a voice whispers. “Mabel, wake up.”

She bolts upright, cracking her head against someone else’s.

“Owza!” she shrieks. “Ows, owzies, owow _ow -”_

“I didn’t need another concussion,” Dipper says. They’re in his dimly-lit room, there’s a hole in the wall and the chair is scattered against the floor and it’s like Mabel is seeing everything from sixteen rods of color.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Uh, just asking, do you remember any… strange events, maybe including police officers?”

Dipper looks at her, his brows knit. “Um, you came in here, we talked, you fell asleep… yeah. No police officers. What are you on, exactly?”

Mabel nearly cries with relief. “Funny dream! Just a funny, funny dream, there were bunnies, and kittens, and attractive people kissing puppies and pink ribbons everywhere - and I think Victoria’s Secret was actually affordable?”

Dipper blinks. “Wow. I, uh, just… wow.”

“Anyway,” Mabel yawns. “Sorry I sorta… took your bed, there.”

Dipper waves it off. “I woke you up because… uh.”

“Uh…?” Mabel asks.

“Dad was attacked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really excited for this chapter because there's a lot shenanigans in here. Like, this chapter is shenanigans with a side of Daddy Issues; there was much fun to be had by all.
> 
> I'm nervous posting this one because I'm not sure if I wrote Mabel's voice right, since Mabel's personally hard to write for me (despite the fact that we're both ENFPs, go figure) and I just... idk, guys. I don't think my writing, which I don't usually think much of, was hitting the notes I wanted it to. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry about my awful updating skills! I've been having a hell of a writer's block lately, and I'm so busy all of the time, and I don't have a laptop so I had to borrow one - but, excuses, excuses. But, what do we think? There's Trigger, and there's also shady Officer Wright, and a bunch of little details that add up to things in the long run! :D Yippee!
> 
> A new summary of this story: "Parents Try To Be Parents But Are Professionally Bad Parents, Sorry To All Of The Poor Children Out There Who Must Suffer."


	11. DV GIRXP YILPVIH DRGS GSV YLOW KIRMG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> L GRQ'W WKLQN BRX'UH ORRNLQJ KDUG HQRXJK - JUHHQ PHDQV JR, UHG PHDQV VWRS, BHOORZ PHDQV BLHOG - LI L'P LQ OXFN LW'V PB GLDPRQG LQ WKH URXJK - EHZDUH RI WKH VNB EHQHDWK DQ RSHQ ILHOG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All past trigger warnings apply, btw! There's no actual violence, but there's talk of it, so.

Dipper’s fingers fumble with the pen.

 

He’s supposed to be writing something. It’s probably calculus, actually, but the numbers and symbols keep swimming, so it might be English - that squiggle to the left looks like an ‘s.’ It might be a seven. Or a ‘z.’ Or it might just be a squiggle where his hands had started shaking against the paper - he’s not sure.

 

He hates homework. He used to be good at it; he kept a tenuous balance with it, a tolerance but a hate, and he can’t really explain where it’s gone. He’s supposed to be the smart one, but he’s not living up to it; intelligence is hard to maintain, hard to manage. It’s a taxing quality to redeem yourself by.

 

Dipper drops the pen, and leans back in his chair - is it Saturday, or Sunday? It might be Friday night. He’s lost a lot of time.

 

His fingers are shaking, so he braces them against the notebook, laying them flat and splayed with the tendons drawn tight. In response, his elbows shake with strain, and it’s fucking useless - even his limbs are weak.

 

He eventually lets his arms go slack, lets his eyes stare off into space because he’s exhausted. He’s tired enough that random words are floating out of the din, like ‘milk,’ and ‘rings,’ and now he’s wondering if they’ve ever invented rings that had milk in them so people could have a constant supply of milk on hand. Literally.

 

Whoever ‘they,’ is, anyway. Humanity in a general sense, or humanity as it personally applies to him, or woodland creatures with hyper-evolved cognitive capacities.

 

Dipper pushes himself out of his chair and wanders downstairs - he needs coffee.

 

The living room is a wreck; Grunkle Stan’s not a cleaner, and Ford’s preoccupied with the - the monster thing? - and Mabel’s gone most of the time, so maybe Dipper should do it. After he gets some coffee in his system, maybe cleaning’ll get those squiggles to stop wiggling so much.

 

Dipper wanders into the kitchen, digging his phone out of his pocket to use as a flashlight because he doesn’t want to detour to turn on the light.

 

The flashlight catches the pastel yellow post-it on the coffee machine, lined with thick, black sharpie. 

 

“Oh, no,” Dipper groans. “Don’t do this to me.”

 

He pulls the note off of the shiny plastic, and reads, “ _ Hey, kiddo! I threw out the coffee. Now you HAVE to sleep. You’re welcome, and suck it. Sincerely, Stan.” _

 

“ _ And _ you did this to me,” Dipper moans. “Where is mercy when you need it?”

 

Good thing he’s the master of back-up plans. He rifles around in the top cabinet, and stretches until he can catch the plastic of the packaging and pull down his emergency stash of energy drinks.

 

“Suck it,” Dipper mutters, and he pulls one out, cracks open the lid, and chugs a quarter of it.

 

He blinks a couple times, re-focusing his eyes, and his eyes catch the time illuminated on the stove: four seventeen. 

 

“Nice,” Dipper says to himself, scrubbing his eyes. “This is a new low, even for you, Dipper.”

 

He tips the energy drink - Redbull, maybe, does he buy Redbull or Monster? - back just as the door opens.

 

Dipper, naturally, spits his drink out all over himself like an idiot.

 

Mabel wheels around, fear written on her face. “Oh  _ my _ \- oh my God, you scared me half to death, Dipper, I  _ swear  _ -”

 

Dipper’s still breathing through his own chest pains. “Oh, holy shit, that was horrifying, I just spit all over myself, great, oh, _ fuck.” _

 

Mabel’s eyes dart between the energy drinks, the open energy drink, Dipper’s face, the new stains on his shirt, and the clock, illuminated by the blue glow of the flashlight option Apple so kindly offered.

 

“Nice energy drinks,” Mabel says. “Goes well with your eye bags.” She makes vague, jerky hand gestures at his general being - it’s sarcastic. Dipper has to swallow a biting retort and replace it with, like, a nibbling retort. An ankle-biting retort. Baby retort?

 

“Thank you,” Dipper says. “My high fashion goes unrecognized.”

 

“Y’know, like your three-day-old scruff and spit-covered shirt,” Mabel says. Okay, he can feel the stickiness of his shirt, he doesn’t need the reminder,  _ thank you. _

 

“Why do you hate me,” Dipper grumbles. “I’m not hate-able.”

 

“You need to go to sleep, Dipdop,” Mabel says.

 

“Says you, who is most definitely not asleep at four in the morning, although I totally thought you were, but, no, you’re actually coming inside, you’re actually coming inside - fully dressed - at four in the morning,” Dipper rambles.  _ “You  _ need sleep.”

 

He gestures at her; he decides it’s a bad move after her eyes trace his shaking hands. “Look at… all of that. That. Needs sleep, and, yeah. To conclude my formal argument, yes.”

 

Mabel’s eyebrows raise - Dipper can see her bloodshot eyes, can feel the way her body reacts to exhaustion with implausible grogginess, how she slows down. Dipper’s not like that. He just gets more and more wound up until he snaps, and maybe he wishes insomnia stuck in his gears like syrup, because then he might not be an insomniac. If that makes sense.

 

“Why aren’t you drinking coffee?”

 

“Stan threw it out,” Dipper says. “And you’re changing the subject.”

 

“You’re in no position to press that subject, bro,” Mabel says. 

 

“Well, neither are you,” Dipper says. “You’re about to fall over.”

 

“At least I’m recognizing that I’m awake way too late,” Mabel says. “And not trying to cover it up.”

 

“I’m awake too late. There you go. You happy?” Dipper asks.

 

“You’re getting pissy,” Mabel says. “Just, go to sleep, please?”

 

“You’re being cagey,” Dipper snaps.

 

“Cagey?” Mabel asks. Her eyebrows are folding - the truth is, Dipper’s known for having a whip of a tongue, especially when he’s been up late, and this isn’t a topic Dipper should be broaching with a barbed ire. 

 

“You won’t tell me where you were,” Dipper says.

 

Naturally, he does it anyway.

 

“Okay, firstly,  _ you didn’t ask _ , secondly, it’s none of your business, okay?” Mabel says. There’s an odd note in her voice that stresses the muscles in Dipper’s shoulders, and he wonders if this is how she felt back in Gravity Falls, when Dipper was a liar and a cheat to everyone, even his own sister.

 

Dipper sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. That’s the response I’ve gotten the last, like, eighty times I’ve pestered you about it, so I should stop asking.”

 

Mabel’s eyes harden, and her lips purse, a vein in her neck pops as she tilts her head sardonically. “You actually should, you know. What happened to the, ‘you can tell me when you’re ready,’ Dipper Pines?”

 

_ He got worried,  _ Dipper thinks. He considers saying it, just blurting it out, but he doesn’t. (He doesn’t say it because it’s a lie - he got  _ scared.) _

 

She breaks off to cough into her sleeve, an ugly, hacking noise that rattles around; Dipper’s heart aches for her.

 

He turns around and opens a low cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cough syrup, and offers it to her. “Here. Don’t get sick on me, Mabes,” he says.

 

She smiles at him - it’s a small one, but it’s a smile. He misses seeing her smile. “I won’t. You know me, strong immune system, an’ all. Alpha twin.”

 

“I know,” Dipper says. He smiles, too, but it doesn’t fit quite right. “You should get some sleep. You were at the hospital all day.”

 

Mabel nods. “You, too.” 

 

And, before Dipper can voice the abominable thing in his throat, she’s gone, around the corner and tip-toeing up the stairs, cough syrup in hand.

 

Dipper finishes off the rest of his energy drink and tosses it in the trash can. No sleep ‘til Brooklyn, or whatever. Thanks, Beastie Boys.

 

It’s not the first time in the last two weeks he’s walked away from a conversation with Mabel feeling heavy, and judging by her slamming footfalls, she’s feeling the same way. 

 

He pads up the stairs a few minutes later, sticking to the sides so the boards don’t creak - Ford’s already gotten on him a couple of times for waking him up by being too loud.

 

He ducks into his room, and shuts the door, and any semblance of sanity he had before falls apart. 

 

He tosses the pack of drinks on his bed with a snap of a throw, his hands move without purpose, gesturing broadly and jerking back and forth, and he bounces on the balls of his feet; this is why he hates energy drinks. They make him anxious, or, anxious-er. Hyper? Is this what being hyper is like? Is he having - is he having a sugar rush?

 

That’d be funny. It be funny, like the time Bill spilled his sister’s guts on the forest floor -

 

He paces back and forth, sticking to his rug and using his dirty clothes and various towels as stepping-stones. He doesn’t want to touch the floor, because it’s cold, and he’s not wearing socks - where  _ are _ his socks, anyway -

 

A lot of things are running through his head - there’s so many stressors in his life right now that he might as well just give in to the idea that he’s going to be stressed for the rest of his life.

 

There’s the old, tried-and-true, ‘you’re fresh demon meat whenever Bill wants you!’ trick. There’s a fucktruck of father drama, starting with, ‘I have leftover bruises from two weeks ago where my father hit me with a cooking utensil,’ and ending with, ‘I haven’t visited my dad in the hospital after his arm was brutally ripped off by some unknown thing, because I am a weakass piece of shit who’s scared to look at him,’ respectively. There’s a nice garnish of, ‘surprise, we want you to move back to the place where you’re going to die, deal with it!’ mixed in with, ‘Great Uncle Ford knows I sold my soul to a demon and nobody else does,’ and then there’s Mabel, who’s gone most hours of the day visiting the hospital, and most hours of the night doing the Thing that she’s being secretive about.

 

_ Jesus.  _ He wants to die just thinking about it - but trying to figure this mess out?  _ Holy fucking salutation of Christ. _

 

(Does Christ _ have _ a salutation? He needs to look things up before he says them. Thinks them.)

 

Time flies when he’s having fun, but it flies faster when he’s moving because he’s keyed up in the early morning - he spends two hours tapping tension out on his fingers, as it is, and the idea of it seems impossible, but when he clicks on his phone he’s spent two hours doing nothing but losing time.

 

Figures. At least it’s not the first time.

 

Ford gets up at six-thirty-five sharp, and he goes downstairs and he makes himself a cup of coffee in the light of the pale morning sun. Dipper knows this because he doesn’t fucking sleep, ever, so he’ll sometimes wander down to the kitchen on some random - stupid fucking -  _ whim  _ of his. 

 

Dipper’s got a mouth, and he’s got a tongue, and he’s got a head full of words he’s ready to say; tricky answer is, he’s not sure if he can.

 

But this might be the only chance he get. Anything could happen. Ford and Stan are from Gravity Falls, and they’re Pineses, and that’s a recipe for disaster no matter where you are in the world.

 

So, Dipper pads his way downstairs at a casual-but-obviously-planned six-fourty-five. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s still wearing the jeans he wore yesterday. (Thank mercy for iPhones that tell you the day of the week, hot  _ damn,  _ or he’d be driving to school. _ ) _

 

Ford’s seated at the end of the table, back folded over a spread of notes - and, holy fuck, how does the guy somehow manage to look like a mad scientist version of Indiana Jones within the ten minutes he’s been awake? When Dipper was twelve, he would’ve  _ killed  _ for that skill. It’s fucking ridiculous. Fucking, absolutely, damn  _ ridiculous.  _

 

He’s seriously sitting there with messed-up hair, in a trenchcoat and a sweater and - whatever pants, brand of pants, Ford wears, probably something fucking pretentious like Scientist Corp. or something - bent over scribbled of old-looking notes and a ripped, torn, and slightly burned red journal. 

 

“Fuck,” Dipper mutters, as he swings open the refrigerator to grab a water bottle. He’s got a shot of 5-Hour-Energy in his pocket that he’s going to dump in it the second Ford’s not looking. He’s surprised he hasn’t had a heart attack, or any other serious issue, because he’s been relying on energy drinks for the majority of his high school career.

 

Ford jumps. “Language! I didn’t even see you there.”

 

“I’ll watch my fuckin’ language, shit, sorry,” Dipper says.

 

The look Ford levels him is powerfully unimpressed. “Yes, please watch your fucking shit language.”

 

Dipper’s jaw drops. “I thought you’d curse with, like, scientific equations.  _ ‘E’ equals ‘m-c’ squared  _ you, or something.”

 

“I thought you  _ wouldn’t  _ curse.”

 

_ Oh, you jaded, oblivious old man,  _ Dipper thinks. 

 

“There’s actually a story about that, y’know. Apparently Stan was watching me and Mabel when we were kids and he shouted,  _ ‘son of a bitch!’ _ at the cat, and I wouldn’t stop asking him what, ‘bitch,’ meant,” Dipper says.

 

“Of  _ course _ he would. Actually, of course  _ you  _ would.” Ford says.

 

“That’s Stan,” Dipper says. He cracks open the water, only to ‘spill’ it over his hands with a muttered, “oh, shit!” and he turns around to snag a couple napkins. While he wipes off his hands, he dumps the 5-Hour-Energy into his water, thinks,  _ I am going to fucking kill myself,  _ and then slips the empty bottle back in his pocket.

 

When he turns around, he’s met with Ford’s crinkled eyebrows and concerned expression. “You need sleep. You’re getting clumsy.”

 

“Pfft, please. I’ve  _ been  _ clumsy,” Dipper says.

 

“You don’t normally drop water bottles.”

 

“Don’t normally do a lot of things,” Dipper grunts, and he tips the water bottle back, sucking down half of it in one swallow.

 

Ford’s fingers tighten on his pen, and Dipper feels tension build. Why are people so overdramatic, anyway? Why can’t Ford just say,  _ bitch, you fucking did a goddamn motherfucking shitting wrong here, I’m here to tell you how wrong you are, you cocksure, dickass, son of Satan?  _ What’s so wrong with that?

 

“Dipper…”

 

Oh, no, it’s the trailing sentence, the sigh, the name, painted in light tones - this is going to be a trainwreck of reality TV show.

 

Dipper blinks, and looks at Ford, shutting his teeth on sentences like,  _ did you tell Stan do you hate me I’m sorry I had to is there a way to fix things what’s happening why hasn’t he come for me yet why am I alive? _

 

He lets Ford call the shot. 

 

Ford pulls off his glasses, and toys with them in his hands, for all of the world looking twice his age. “What did you want to talk to me about, this early in the morning?”

 

_ Bitch, I was hoping you were going to start that fucking conversation you fucking, bitchass, shitlamp motherfucker,  _ Dipper thinks.  _ What a cockass. _

 

“I know you’re not down here for small talk.”

 

“You’re right,” Dipper says, slowly. His fingers tap against the bottle, and his eyes dart around the room, and it’s impossible to understand how hard it is to speak. He’s the one standing up, but he feels so  _ small _ , like the way he’s casually leaning against the counter is a fallacy and trap and another lie.

 

“You want to talk about the deal you made with Bill Cipher,” Ford says. His eyes rake Dipper’s form, searching, and for what, Dipper’s scared to find out.

 

The words send a thrill down his spine - he’s never heard them out loud before. It’s surreal. “... Yes?”

 

Ford laughs. “You should’ve talked to me earlier. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry.”

 

Dipper stamps his tongue out on a,  _ you could’ve called us if you had to. Neither of you called. Maybe we didn’t respond because neither of you ever called, huh? _

 

But that’s just a little unfair.

 

“Didn’t want to… risk anything,” Dipper says. It’s a lame excuse, and Ford sees that, but he doesn’t comment on it. Maybe mercy does exist.

 

“It’s alright. It’s… it’s, it’s alright. Have you noticed anything?”

 

Dipper bites his lip.  _ Say something, you dumbass,  _ he thinks, and then he blurts, “Dreams.”

 

Ford’s eyebrows raise. “Dreams?”

 

Dipper’s heart pounds.  _ Just fucking say it. _

 

“I, yeah. Dreams. Weird ones.”

 

_ He needs info, you idiot. _

 

“What happens in them?”

 

“I watch people die,” Dipper says. The words fall out of his mouth, finally free.

 

Ford frowns; he’s not getting it, how big this is, how long Dipper’s been holding on to his weird dreams and the secret guilt that haunts them.“Do you… kill them?”

 

“No, I  _ am  _ them,” Dipper says, his muscles coiling. “O-or, not entirely, I’m like, sharing their head. Inside their skull. I think you know what I mean.”

 

Ford winces. “I get what you’re saying. Tell me more, my boy.”

 

“Uh, well… they’re always dying, uh, blood-ily. Vivid imagination wielding a chainsaw. Freddy Krueger shit, or Saw, or something bloody and horror-ish,” Dipper blabs. “Everyone dies.”

 

_ I sound like an idiot. At least that’s accurate,  _ he thinks.

 

“Every single person you dream of?”

 

“In the dream, at least. I mean, some of them actually die, some of them don’t,” Dipper says. He can see the second Ford makes the connection Dipper’s been dancing around - the wrinkles on his forehead fold.

 

Ford snaps his fingers. “Are you dreaming of the Beast’s victims?”   
  


“The Beast?” Dipper asks. The Beast? The… the monster?

 

“The working name,” Ford says. “I thought it was good.”

 

“Dramatic,” Dipper snorts. “And, uh… yeah? I mean, I don’t remember dreaming about Melanie, but I somehow  _ knew  _ she was going to die. The night before, I was with Mabel, and I remember waking up from a dream and throwing up - that was the one. I don’t remember all of ‘em. But this last one, I saw everyone. I remember it.”

 

“That’s… why would a demon deal give you the power to watch people die? Is it a form of torture?” Ford asks. There are gears spinning behind his furrowed brow and taut frown.

 

“It sucks ass for me,” Dipper says. He has to balance his elbows on the counter to keep his half-full water bottle from shaking with his quivering ligaments.

 

“Unless…”

 

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Dipper says, taking a long pull of his water bottle. It’s empty when he lowers it a minute later, and he’s face-to-face with Ford, who’s looking wide-eyed and scared and all of the things Dipper doesn’t want to see.

 

“Nevermind. It’s not that. You don’t meet all of the requirements, anyway. It  _ has  _ to be Bill, it  _ has  _ to be - but why?”

 

“About the - um, the,  _ that. _ Is there a way to break it without reversing it?”

 

Ford stops, face pale.

 

“I’ve been researching,” he says.

 

“I don’t trust it when you say sentences that start like that.”

 

Ford grins, wanly. It’s not convincing. “Neither do I, my boy… Neither do I. The only problem with breaking a deal is that - well,  _ we _ can’t. Bill has to void the conditions of the deal himself, since he’s the deal broker. But Bill is a  _ master  _ manipulator. It’d be impossible - not to mention risky - to try and trick him into it.”

 

Dipper’s stomach feels like led. “I figured that much.”

 

“I’m not giving up on you, son,” Ford says. “I won’t. Bill won’t win this time. There is a checkmate somewhere, I just… haven’t found it. Have you been doing your own research?”

 

And then Ford just asks the thing Dipper had been _ avoiding. _

 

“No,” Dipper says. “This is - this is Mabel’s life on the line. Mabel. I can’t risk that. If I void the deal somehow, she could die.”

 

Ford sighs - it’s filled with a building heat. “You can’t afford to be idle! I understand, but… You’re between a rock and a hard place, Dipper, you have been for years.”

 

“Believe me, I know,” Dipper says. 

 

“I’ll need to get Mabel’s help on it,” Ford says. “She has brilliant ideas.”

 

“I… I never told Mabel.”

 

The change is immediate: Ford’s face shifts into rage instantly.

 

“You  _ what!?” _ Ford snaps. “You could - you could die at any second, or worse, and you haven’t warned your  _ sister!?” _   
  


“Thanks for the reminder,” Dipper drawls. “And… no. I don’t know how to tell her! How do you tell someone that they’ve  _ died _ before?”

 

“You say that exact sentence, you dumbass!”

 

“Hey, I resent that!”

 

“You need to tell Mabel as soon as possible,” Ford says. “In fact, wake her up now.”

 

“She had a late night, let her sleep,” Dipper says. 

 

“And you?” Ford asks. “You had  _ no  _ night. If you can survive, she can. Especially if it means helping you  _ void this deal.” _

 

Dipper straightens off of the counter, shoulders squaring.

 

“Maybe it’ll be better if she doesn’t know!” Dipper argues. “I mean - I don’t know if I can tell her, oh, there’s a high chance I’m going to spend the rest of my life being tortured or - or -  _ something _ . What do I fucking say? How the fuck am I going to tell her I told Bill to take anything to bring her back to life!?”

 

“Anything!?” Ford shouts; it’s so vigorous that skin loose from age quakes. “You - you promised  _ anything!?  _ You never told me  _ that!” _

 

The plastic in Dipper’s fist crunches as his fist closes like a vice. “Yes. That’s what I said. Exact wording. You happy now?”   
  


“No! That’s - that’s - that’s so incredibly  _ idiotic!”  _ Ford snaps.

 

“I know,” Dipper says. “I was half dead, watching my sister die, and also twelve. What else was I going to do?”

 

Ford huffs. “Not promise an all-powerful being anything he wants.”

 

“Shit. There goes my perfect record.”

 

_ “This isn’t a joke! _ ” Ford roars, slamming his fist into the table. 

 

“What the hell is happening here!?” Stan snarls, striding into the kitchen. “What the hell can one nerd and one...  _ overgrown _ nerd be arguing about at seven in the goddamn morning?”   
  


Dipper says, “Politics,” at the same time Ford says, “Physics.”

 

The two lock eyes, and Dipper says, “Physics,” when Ford says, “Politics.”

 

Dipper clears his throat. “Uh,  _ political  _ physics.”

 

“Right,” Stan says, with a raised eyebrow. “Mabel, honey, you wanna come talk political physics?”

 

Mabel shuffles into the room, hair tangled in a mess and clad in a neon pink bathrobe. “You woke me up,” she mumbles. Her voice is thick and raspy. She’s sick.

 

“Fuckers,” Stan says, but he pulls a chair out for Mabel and sits in the one beside it. “Dipper, I nominate you to make breakfast.”

 

Dipper tosses his mangled water bottle into the trash. “On it, sarge,” he mutters.

 

“That’s what I like to hear.”

 

Ford mouths,  _ later,  _ with a trembling jaw, and then turns to Stan. “Uh, Stanley, how’s your… morning... been?”

 

“Shitty as hell,” Stan says. “Mabel?”

 

“Eh,” she shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

 

_ Note to self: schedule doctor’s appointment for Mabel,  _ Dipper thinks.

 

“Dipper?” Stan asks. “How’s that head of yours?”

 

“Good, with pain pills,” Dipper says. It’s at least something he’s not lying about; they’d taken him to the hospital when Don was first admitted and in surgery. It’d been convenient. 

 

“That’s good,” Stan says, and he looks around at the occupied table in the uncomfortable silence. “Well, Dipper? Bacon, eggs?”

 

“Oh, shit,” Dipper says, and her jerks into action. “Sorry. Forgetful.”

 

“Too many head injuries. Causes memory issues. Dipper probably forgets to do important things, to  _ tell people important things _ -”

 

“Hey, now,” Dipper says. “I’m not as bad as you. You’re old.”

 

Ford’s jaw twitched in time with his eye.

 

Stan coughs. “Well! This is… this is. Pleasant.”

 

“Pleasant,” Mabel echoes.

 

Dipper slides a pan on the stove, kicks up the heat, and starts pulling breakfast items out of the fridge. “I feel like a maid.”

 

“You can’t be a maid, because a maid’s job is to tell others important things happening in the home,” Ford says, sharply.

 

_ This fucker,  _ Dipper thinks.

 

“I’m getting the feeling we’re missing something,” Mabel says.

 

“Just a little,” Stan says, looking between Dipper and Ford. “So. Political physics.”

 

“Uh… creationism is dumb,” Dipper says. “There.”

 

“Yes,” Ford coughs. “That.”

 

Stan rolls his eyes. “What were you two  _ really  _ arguing about?”

 

“Well, Dipper -”

 

Dipper slams the pan he’s holding on the stove. “Sorry. Hand slipped. Clumsy. Probably too many brain injuries, right,  _ Great Uncle Ford?” _

 

Mabel’s worrying her lip when she looks at him. “Brain injuries. Right.”

 

“Exactly,” Ford says. “Since he’s clearly not in any state to handle affairs, I’ll handle them from now on -”

 

“Affairs!?” Dipper snaps. “You sound like a Yale preppie.”

 

“Yale is a good school, I’ll have you know -”

 

“Topic change!” Stan calls, over Dipper’s heaving breath and Ford’s rising blood pressure.

 

“How about we actually talk about what we’re doing after Dad gets out of the hospital?” Mabel says.

 

The kitchen falls silent.

 

“Gee whiz, that’s a mood changer,” Dipper says.

 

Wrong thing to say, he knows, because Dad’s a topic Mabel’s been sensitive about, lately.

 

“Well!” Mabel says. “He gets out tomorrow, which you’d know if you’d actually been to visit him.”

 

Ouch.

 

“Neither of you owe him shit,” Stan grunts.

 

“He’s our dad,” Mabel hisses. 

 

“Fatherhood does not make you a good father,” Ford says. “Like brotherhood doesn’t make you a good brother -”

 

_ That’s fucking it. _

 

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Dipper growls - his tendons are popping with irritation that’s turning into a bright, fizzy anger, and he wants to drive his fist into a wall. 

 

Again, Dipper’s fucked up incredibly, because Ford’s mouth flops open like a fish, and Stan’s knuckles grow white from where his fists are curled.

 

“.... Butthead move, bro,” Mabel says.

 

“Whoops,” Dipper breathes, and it  _ has  _ to be the most sarcastic damn thing he’s ever said.

 

“Well,” Stan says - there’s anger in his voice. It shakes the table. “Dipper, can I talk to you? Ford, pumpkin, you might wanna evacuate.”

 

“Stan, listen -”

 

“I don’t want to see this,” Mabel says. “I’m going back to sleep. Wake me up when everyone wants to be chill AF.”

 

She leaves, and her chair skids against the floor and slams against the wall. Dipper winces - he’s too good at ruining everything, it seems.

 

“Shut up, Poindexter,” Stan says. “Take your nerd shit. I’ll be up in a minute.”

 

“ _ Fine,  _ Stanley.”

 

He shuffles out of the room, leaving Stan glaring at Dipper’s back and Dipper vehemently cooking eggs.

 

The tension is thick. Dipper’s heart is pounding, and when Stan’s hand taps his shoulder, Dipper wheels around, catching Stan’s wrist in his grip.

 

Something dark flashes over Stan’s face, and his bones pop as he balls his fist, but he says, “Kid… just go to sleep. Just,  _ do it _ . Try it. Get out of those clothes, and go sleep. I ain’t gonna beat you up over the shit you say when you haven’t slept in ages.”

 

It’s a quiet, but firm, thing to say. It leaves Dipper feeling like he’s been throwing a tantrum, which is true. He feels, honest-to-goodness, properly embarrassed.

 

Dipper avoids Stan’s gaze. “Sorry, Grunkle Stan.”

 

Dipper lets go of his arm - he hadn’t realized how hard he been holding it, his knuckles are creaking. Stan settles against the counter beside him, and any onlooker could’ve seen the family resemblance - broad-shouldered, thin-waisted, and very, very exhausted.

 

Stan pats his shoulder, leaves it there. It’s warm. “I want you to come back to Gravity Falls with me and Ford.”

 

That’s not what he was expecting.

 

“Huh?” Dipper blanches. “I mean, I thought - I thought you knew Mabel talked me into it? Are we leaving earlier, or something, or -”

 

“Mabel’s not going.”

 

His ribcage feels like iron, and his heart feels like the magnet collapsing it.   
  


“.... What?” 

 

“She’s not going. I can’t make her; she’s stubborn as hell, you know her. She wants to look after Don, says he needs a hand around the house. Pun unintended.” he says. “She’ll come down for spring break, but she’s coming back here after.”

 

“I can’t leave her.” 

 

“She… she said she wants you to go,” Stan says. “She thinks it’d be good for you.”

 

And that’s - that’s the kicker, that she’s worried about him, that she thinks this is best. That’s what hitches his breath.

 

Dipper sighs. “Good for me, huh?”

 

“Getting away from this might be exactly what you need, kid,” Stan says. 

 

“Didn’t you spend thirty years trying to be with your sibling again? Seems a little unlike you to promote sibling separation.”

 

“That’s different,” Stan says. “That’s all different. It’ll only be a couple months. Mabel said she wants you to worry about yourself, and not her, for a while.”

 

“But… there’s something up with her. I can’t leave her to -” 

 

“There’s also something up with you. You’re both goin’ through a lot at once.”

 

Dipper makes an angry noise in the back of his throat. “If… if it’s what she really wants. I’ll talk to her.”

 

“I didn’t say I agree with it, but after watchin’ you kill yourself of exhaustion, I think I might be convinced,” Stan says.

 

It’s hard to chew through what he’s thinking, then - there’s a huge, tied knot of hurt and impending doom crammed in his craw, something like,  _ I can’t believe she doesn’t want me around anymore, what changed between us,  _ and  _ I’m going to die. _

 

“I’m not that bad,” Dipper chuckles.

 

Except, he is - has been for years. There’s a running list of things he’s bad at, sleeping, eating, and like Ford said, being a brother is on that list, too. This is just confirmation.

 

“Keep tellin’ yourself that. Go to sleep, kid, and start off your last week at Piedmont High right.”

 

Oh, God. He’s never going to be able to survive this.

  
Dipper trudges up the stairs, but he doesn’t sleep. He goes back to pacing, tapping his issues out on the joints of his fingers, but he adds another one:  _ I’m walking back into hell, and my sister’s not going to be there. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story: my friend actually had a breakup today, but she got pissed at me for not updating even though the chapter was done. Go figure! I've been busy, guys, I'm sorry. :(
> 
> This chapter's an interesting little thing? It's sort of difficult to write, because I have to present you with a situation where you don't know what's in the current events with each character, because it's all been different. Of course, we visit Dipper first, and this is where we get to introduce the whole crux of act two of this fic - which, by the by, is the Not Fun, Would Not Recommend, Really Awful part. 
> 
> As always, leave questions, comments, concerns - and love letters ooh la la - below or at jerseydevious.tumblr.com! Have a great day, sweethearts, and welcome to the darker side of the bad moon!


End file.
